One In Four
by Swing Girl At Heart
Summary: When Blaine finds out that Kurt's not being entirely honest with him about who he is, things go to hell in a handbasket pretty damn quickly. Things in Kurt's head were never as simple as they seemed. TRIGGER HEAVY. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Bowling For Bad Lies

_Bowling For Bad Lies_

Every few weeks, Blaine would spend Friday or Saturday night at Kurt's house. They'd spend the evening watching a movie (sometimes more than one, if they weren't tired) and eating popcorn, and then Blaine would sleep on the couch. Kurt would wake up about an hour before him and make breakfast crepes for them both, as well as a few extra ones for the bottomless pit that was Finn's stomach in the morning. After that, the two of them would leave Finn to his weekend videogame marathons and go somewhere to shop, have coffee, or just hang out for the day. It was a routine that Blaine was constantly looking forward to, and one of the things he loved best about attending McKinley.

It was one of these mornings when Blaine woke up and was surprised that he couldn't smell the fresh crepe batter being warmed over the stove. He sighed, rubbing the sleep-grime out of his eyes and pulling the blanket off his legs, stretching before heading for the kitchen.

Kurt was nowhere to be seen, and only Finn was sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, devouring a gigantic bowl of oatmeal that looked like it contained more syrup than anything else. Blaine suppressed a grimace and bid Finn a good morning.

"Hey, dude," Finn said through a mouthful of syrupy oats and raisins. "What's up?"

"Where's Kurt?"

"Out on the porch," Finn answered. "You might want to get a jacket on before you go out there, though. It's snowing a little."

Finn let Blaine borrow his gigantic letterman jacket and snow boots, and Blaine shivered in his pajama pants as he stepped outside. Kurt was sitting on the flaking wooden bench, looking out at the light January snow falling onto the street.

"Hey, you," Blaine greeted him with a smile.

Kurt turned his head and gave Blaine a wordless nod, which made Blaine frown a little. Kurt's face looked worn, his eyes slightly shadowed. He'd obviously skipped his skin routine.

"No skin sloughing this morning?" Blaine ventured, sinking onto the bench beside him.

Kurt gave him a strange look. "Why would I do that?"

What startled Blaine even more than Kurt's odd abhorrence of skincare was the voice in which he'd spoken. It had sounded like Kurt had caught strep throat overnight, or at least had developed a sizable Adam's apple.

"Why are you talking like that?" Blaine asked.

Kurt was almost glaring at him now, his eyebrows pulled together and his upper lip half-curled as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. "How else would I talk?" he asked flatly, his voice still low and graveled.

Blaine stared at him, stunned. He'd never seen Kurt act so callously, especially over such a small point of conversation. He was about to press Kurt further when Burt poked his head out of the house and quickly said, "Come on, kiddo, time for breakfast."

"I'm not hungry," Kurt snapped, looking back out towards the road.

Burt glanced nervously at Blaine for a second before insisting, "You need to eat something."

"I _said_ I'm not hungry."

"Just half a bowl of corn flakes, kiddo, that's all I'm asking," Burt bargained. "Half a bowl won't kill you."

"It might," Kurt huffed as he stood up, brushing past Blaine and stomping into the house.

Still frowning deeply, Blaine stood and followed Kurt and his father back into the kitchen. Kurt shrugged off his coat and dropped it on the floor below the coat rack instead of neatly hanging it up like he usually did, and then pulled himself onto a stool next to Finn, slouching down and resting his chin on his arms. Burt seemed to be either unaware of Kurt's strange behavior or ignoring it, and he set a bowl of corn flakes on the counter in front of Kurt, who scowled at it distastefully.

"So... no crepes?" Blaine asked, feeling uncomfortably out of the loop even though he had no idea if such a 'loop' even existed.

Maybe it did, though, since Burt sent a pointed glance in Finn's direction, and Finn abruptly turned around and said, "Hey, so… since Kurt's got to go to the doctor's soon, how about you and me go bowling? We could have a dudes' day out."

Blaine's gaze flickered to Kurt, who still had his back to Blaine and was toying unhappily with his cereal rather than eating it. "…Yeah, okay," Blaine said after several seconds of indecision. He didn't want to go bowling, but Finn was terrible at lying and keeping secrets, so Blaine figured that if he wanted to know what was going on, if anything, then he might be able to glean some insight from Kurt's gargantuan stepbrother. "That'd be great."

Finn grinned, genuinely happy that Blaine had accepted. "Awesome. I'll be done eating by the time you get dressed." He exchanged another quick look with Burt as he turned back to his oatmeal, letting Blaine head back to the living room.

Now thoroughly confused, Blaine quickly changed into his clothes and shoved his pajamas into his backpack before stripping the sheet and blanket off the cushions and folding them neatly on the couch arm so that Carole wouldn't have to clean up after him. He did this all without much thought to it, instead putting his brainpower towards possible explanations for Kurt's newfound oddities. However, by the time he returned to the kitchen, he'd come up with no conclusions.

At least, none that made any sense.

* * *

><p>Bowling with Finn was boring more than anything else, but Blaine knew that if he weren't so preoccupied that it would have been at least somewhat entertaining. As it was, Blaine kept picturing Kurt's face from that morning. It was disturbing, seeing his boyfriend's normally bright and cheeky features so… flat. There had been an almost creepy deadness to Kurt's eyes when they were sitting on the porch that Blaine found extremely hard to ignore, and he couldn't shake the feeling that there was a much deeper reason for it than just waking up on the wrong side of the bed.<p>

"Dude," Finn's voice cut through Blaine's thought bubbles. "Hello? It's your turn."

Blaine's eyes snapped up. "Oh, sorry." He stood up and grabbed his twelve-pound ball from the rack, giving it a halfhearted roll down the aisle to knock down a third of the pins.

"Man, you are seriously off your game today," Finn observed. "The last time you went bowling with Kurt and me, you kicked both our asses by a long shot."

Blaine's ball rolled back onto the rack from the pipe, and Blaine gave it another toss, not caring that it went straight into the gutter.

"Is something up?" Finn asked, slurping his root beer.

Blaine gawked at the taller boy. "Are you serious? Were you even there this morning?"

Finn paused, clearly uncertain of what to say. "What do you mean?"

Blaine dropped into his chair across from Finn, baffled and more than a little annoyed. "Finn, Kurt was acting like… like… I don't know what he was acting like, but he definitely wasn't himself."

Finn looked surprised, but the expression lasted a little too long to be true. "I didn't notice."

"Seriously, Finn?" Blaine said dryly. "You're _that_ bad a liar?

Finn sighed and put his root beer down, looking at his hands. "Okay, yeah, I know what's going on with him."

"Well?" Blaine prompted, leaning forward.

"I can't tell you, dude. I wish I could, but it's Kurt's business."

"It's my business too! I'm his boyfriend!"

"Exactly."

"Huh?"

Finn finally looked at Blaine with a serious expression. "Look, I know it's your business, and I'd rather that you know. But he's your boyfriend, which means that he's got to be the one to tell you."

Blaine huffed, irritated that Finn refused to tell him but even more irritated that Finn was right.

* * *

><p>That night, as Blaine was holed up in his bedroom at home and attempting to concentrate on his calculus homework, his cell phone rang. "Hello?" he said, cradling it between his ear and shoulder and not even bothering to check the caller ID.<p>

"_Hey, Blaine._"

Blaine's eyebrows snapped together. "Finn?"

"_Yeah, hi._"

"What's going on? It's almost ten."

There was a long pause on the other end. "_Look, Blaine… I-I talked with Kurt and I don't think he's going to tell you what's up._"

"…Okay?"

"_He's totally going to murder me for this, and so is Burt, but I really think you deserve to know._"

Blaine tossed his pen onto his desk, his homework forgotten. "Okay, what is it?"

"_I don't want to talk about it over the phone. Can you meet me at Molly's in like twenty minutes?_"

"I'll be there in ten."

Finn arrived at Molly's 24-Hour Diner before Blaine did and was already sitting at a table in the corner when Blaine walked in. They were the only people in the diner, so the waitress swooped down on them before Blaine even had a chance to open his mouth.

"Can I get you boys anything?" the waitress asked.

"Just a coffee, thanks," Blaine said, grateful when Finn told her he didn't need anything and she walked away. He leaned forward. "Okay, so what's going on with him?"

Finn let out a long, slow breath, studying the wood grain of the table. "That's the thing…" he said quietly, like he was still trying to figure out how to phrase whatever he was trying to say. "Kurt's not a him."

Blaine blinked. "Um, what?" He had absolutely no clue what Finn meant, because he'd seen everything underneath Kurt's many layers and Kurt was most definitely not a her, either. "What do you mean?"

"He's not a him," Finn repeated. "He's a them."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** To those of you who are following my _Expect the Unexpected _series, although it may seem like it, this is not an EtU installment. This is a standalone, and Kurt's new EtU story is in the process of being written.** Please leave a review.**


	2. Splinter

_Splinter  
><em>

Blaine searched Finn's face for any evidence that he was joking, but there was none. What Finn was saying made absolutely _no_ sense. "What the hell—?"

"Did Kurt tell you how his mom died?" Finn asked, cutting Blaine off and throwing him off-guard.

"Uh… yeah, cancer," Blaine said, still trying to wrap his head around whatever it was Finn was saying.

"He lied." Finn looked out the window onto the darkened street outside. "She died in a car accident – a really, _really_ bad one."

"I… I don't get it, why would Kurt lie about that?"

Finn sighed. "Because he was in the wreck with her. It's kind of a miracle that he's alive at all, but it's the reason he's like this."

Blaine shook his head, growing frustrated. "Like what? What are you talking about?"

Finn ran a hand over his face in agitation. "Kurt's got split personalities. Burt told me that it started a little while after his mom's funeral. It's like a coping mechanism or something."

Blaine was stuck on the word _split_. "So… so he's got two people living in his head?"

Finn shook his head, looking even more uncomfortable. It was obvious he was regretting his decision to talk to Blaine. "No," he said. "He's got seven."

Blaine's heart felt like it had dropped through the bottom of his stomach. "_Seven_?" he repeated breathlessly. "Why has Kurt never told me about any of this?"

"Why do you think?" Finn finally made eye contact. "Look, dude, you can't talk to him about any of this, okay?"

"Wh-why not?"

"Kurt doesn't remember the accident," Finn explained. "He knows it happened, but if you ask him about it, it'll make him feel threatened and someone else will take over. I've made that mistake before. You don't want to see it."

Blaine couldn't respond – he didn't know how. The waitress brought him his cup of coffee, but he didn't notice. "S-so… so who was it I saw this morning?"

"That was Robbie," Finn answered.

"Robbie," Blaine echoed, still not quite believing any of this.

"Yeah. He's fifteen and he's anorexic, which is why he was fighting with Burt about eating breakfast."

"He's fifteen? But Kurt's eighteen."

Finn shook his head. "That's not the way it works. They're all different ages. Zack is four, but Craig's fifty-six."

Blaine rested his head in his hands, feeling dizzy. "I'm going to be sick."

"I'm really sorry you had to find out like this, dude." Finn watched Blaine for a few seconds, then felt the need to caution him again. "You've got to remember, though, when Kurt switches out with someone else… he doesn't know you."

Blaine managed to lift his head. "What?"

"You have to remember," Finn repeated earnestly. "These are _completely _different people from one another. Kurt might be the one in charge most of the time, but once someone else takes over, he will _be _that person until he switches again. And Kurt is the only one who knows who you are."

Blaine felt bile rise in his throat. It definitely explained the deadened, unrecognizable look in Kurt's eyes that morning, and why there had been no crepes or morning skincare.

He was going to vomit.

"Wh-when did you find out about this?" he struggled to ask.

"After Karofsky assaulted him last year," Finn answered, returning his gaze to studying his hands.

"You know about that?"

Finn nodded, twisting his fingers together. "I found him in the locker room afterwards. He was just… yelling. I couldn't even tell what he was saying, and he tried to hit me more than once."

"God," Blaine whispered. "That's…scary."

"Yeah." Finn was still looking at his hands.

"Who was it?"

"Eleanor."

"One of them is a girl?"

"Yeah. Eleanor's always super angry and she breaks things a lot, but she can't do much real damage because she's only eleven. She usually comes out when Kurt's feeling really, _really_ upset. We don't see her that much."

Blaine swallowed, resting his head in his hands again. "How often does this happen?"

"If Kurt's stressed out, it can happen a few times in a day, or it could happen just once in a week. Or less," Finn replied. "But the last few years, Burt says that he's been able to manage it so that the switches are more rare. It's only now starting to get worse again. We're not really sure why. That's part of why I told you – it was only a matter of time before you found out, and I didn't want you to find out the way I did. You deserve better."

Blaine was too busy trying to process this new information that he didn't hear the compliment. "What are we supposed to do?"

"Just treat him like a normal person."

"But he _isn't_ a normal person!" Blaine argued. "He's _seven_ people, and who knows how normal they are!"

"Dude, calm down," Finn said quickly. "When Kurt's in control, then you treat him like you usually would. If it's someone else, then Burt, my mom, and I will help you with it." Finn paused before adding, "But… if you felt like you had to leave, we'd get it. So would Kurt. No one would blame you."

Blaine let out his breath slowly, trying to calm himself down. He could easily hear that Finn was asking him if he wanted to stay, but right now, he didn't have an answer.

* * *

><p>Finn didn't get home until after eleven, sneaking in the front door as quietly as he could. He figured that everyone had gone to bed already, so he was surprised to find Kurt sitting on the couch watching a re-airing of an earlier football game. A red flag popped up in the back of Finn's head – he knew that Kurt never watched sports unless Blaine asked him to or he was tied to the bleachers.<p>

"Hey," he said, leaving off the name since he wasn't sure whom he was talking to.

"Quiet!" Kurt snapped, not even looking away from the TV.

Finn's heart sank when he noticed that Kurt was wearing an unbuttoned flannel shirt and an old white undershirt. An opened beer bottle was standing on the coffee table. He knew who was in control now.

"God _damn_ it!" Kurt snarled as the football was fumbled. "These jokers don't know what the hell they're doing. College football, my ass." He grabbed the beer and took a swig.

"You're not supposed to be drinking that," Finn said automatically, his brotherly instincts kicking in a moment before he remembered that it wasn't really Kurt who was drinking.

Kurt's eyes narrowed at Finn, who swallowed almost audibly. "You really think a little shit like you is gonna tell me what to do?" Finn flinched; hearing swear words come out of Kurt's mouth was something he would never get used to. "Christ, you're worse than my son. Little faggot."

Finn cringed. He could deal with Robbie's snappish attitude and Eleanor's screaming fits, but out of Kurt's several personalities, Craig was the one Finn could stand the least. "You shouldn't talk about your kid like that," Finn said meekly, knowing that if he got angry, Craig would not respond well. Kurt did have muscles, and Craig knew how to use them.

Kurt's eyes rolled. "Yeah, and who's gonna stop me? You're a faggot just like him. I should kick your ass, but you know what? I'm feeling nice today, so why don't you take your faggoty ass up to Kurt's bed and fuck the living daylights out of him so that he'll stop whining about getting engine grease on his hands."

Finn felt like throwing up whenever he heard Craig talk like this. Kurt's psychiatrist had explained that Craig was the embodiment of how Kurt had been afraid Burt would turn out once he'd admitted his sexuality – in simple terms an abusive, homophobic version of his own father. When Craig was in a violent mood, Kurt could easily wake up with bruises from his own fists after Craig beat him up. Eleanor might be the most aggressive of the bunch, but Craig was the most frightening.

Finn turned on his heel and took the stairs two at a time, hoping that by the morning, Craig would be gone.


	3. Spoonful Of Sour

_Spoonful Of Sour  
><em>

Blaine didn't see Kurt again until lunchtime on Monday. As he walked into the cafeteria, he spotted Kurt sitting at their usual table with Tina, Mercedes, Rachel, Santana, Brittany, and Artie, and he stopped short. He studied Kurt from afar for a few minutes, trying to see if there was anything non-Kurt-like about his posture or expression, but for all intents and purposes, Kurt seemed to be himself. He was laughing at something that Artie had said, and appeared completely normal. But Blaine couldn't shake the nervousness in his throat and stomach, nor could he get rid of the image of Kurt slouching and scowling in the cold. He took a deep breath and took a seat at an empty table in the opposite corner.

For nearly ten minutes Blaine toyed with his food before he was startled by Finn plopping down across from him.

"Dude, what are you doing?"

Blaine blinked. "Um… eating?"

"Well, _that's_ not true," Finn said, arching his eyebrows at Blaine's untouched lunch tray. "I meant, why aren't you sitting over there with them?" He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder towards where Kurt, Artie, and the girls were sitting.

Blaine shook his head. "How the hell am I supposed to treat Kurt like always? I don't know who he is!"

"You _do_ know who he is," Finn countered. "When he switches, it's pretty obvious, dude."

"That's not what I meant."

Finn huffed. "Okay, well, you keep acting freaked out and Kurt's going to figure out you know, which is going to stress him out. Good luck." He stood up and returned to his table with Puck and Mike.

Blaine sighed and finally accepted that he wasn't going to eat anything, grabbing his tray and tossing its contents into the trash as he headed back out of the cafeteria. Maybe he could get some of his history reading done before class, if he could manage to concentrate.

"Blaine, wait up!"

…Well, so much for concentration.

Blaine steeled himself and turned to face Kurt, who was jogging to catch up. "Hey," he said tightly.

"What's wrong?" Kurt asked, genuinely concerned.

"N-nothing," Blaine said quickly. He couldn't say why, but it was more unnerving seeing Kurt as himself now that he'd seen a piece of who else was beneath.

Kurt arched an eyebrow. "Why are you avoiding me?" He gave a grin and said, "Is it because I overslept on Saturday and didn't wake up in time to make you your favorite crepes?"

"What? No."

Kurt sighed. "Seriously, what's going on?"

Blaine pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to lessen the odd stretching he was feeling in his brain. "I know, Kurt, okay?"

Kurt paused for several seconds, his eyes darkening (or maybe Blaine was imagining that). "Know what?"

Blaine finally forced himself to meet his boyfriend's eye. "You didn't _oversleep_. Or maybe you did. But _Robbie_ sure as hell didn't."

The color drained from Kurt's face in less than a second. Blaine crossed his arms, waiting for a response. Kurt let out a shaky breath, a glassy film over his eyes, and he glanced around the hallway to make sure there was no one there before saying, "In here," and ducking into the nearest empty classroom.

Kurt hugged his chest, sinking into one of the student chairs and staring at his feet. "Who told you?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

Blaine sighed. "Finn."

A small, sad smile passed over Kurt's face. "I should've known. He can't keep a secret to save his life."

Blaine suddenly felt rage boil in his chest. "What, that's it? No apologies or explanations or… or _anything_? You're just going to sit there and pretend that this is _normal_?"

"What good would an apology really do?"

"I don't know! Jesus, Kurt, did you seriously think that you were just going to keep this hidden forever?"

Kurt shook his head, running an agitated hand through his hair. "No. Well… I wanted to. I didn't know how to tell you without scaring you off."

"Well, great job, because I'm sufficiently freaked out now," Blaine snapped, turning to pace the floor a few times.

"Go ahead," Kurt said, making Blaine frown at him in confusion.

"Go ahead what?"

Kurt wrung his hands. "Aren't you going to break up with me? You can, you know. I'm not going to ask you to stay."

Blaine leaned back against the unoccupied teacher's desk. "I'm not breaking up with you, Kurt. I mean, not yet, at least. I just… I need time to process this."

Kurt nodded. "I understand."

There was a long silence between them as Blaine stared at the floor and Kurt stared at the wall. Finally, Blaine managed to muster up the courage to ask, "Kurt… what happened to you? To – to make you like this?"

Kurt's shoulders stiffened, his expression becoming pinched. "I… I don't…" He shook his head as if he was trying to rid himself of an uncomfortable chill.

Then, Blaine remembered what Finn had said on Saturday night about Kurt's alternate personalities emerging whenever he was stressed, and he quickly said, "Kurt, it's okay, you don't have to—"

Kurt's eyes suddenly seemed to turn off, the eyelids sliding down halfway like he was falling asleep.

"…Kurt?" Blaine said, stepping towards him and waving a hand in front of his face. "Kurt, wake up." He was about to begin panicking when Kurt's eyes snapped open again, and he yelped when he saw Blaine so close up.

Blaine jumped back. "Sorry, I— Are you okay?"

Kurt squinted at him. "I'm _fine_, creeper."

Blaine's eyes widened and his heart skipped a few beats. Kurt's speech had changed to a strangely high register that somehow sounded younger than Kurt's normal voice. He was also slumping in his chair rather than sitting backboard-straight like he usually did, and he had a sour expression as he chewed on his thumbnail.

"…Kurt?"

"I'm not Kurt," he spat.

Blaine flinched. "Wh-where did he go?"

"He's asleep, dumbass." Kurt's lips pursed in annoyance.

"Why?"

He scoffed, glaring at Blaine. "_Because_," he drawled, "you freaked him out. You're kind of an asshole."

Blaine felt dizzy. "So… who are you?"

"Eleanor," Kurt snapped, his lip curling. "I take over for Kurt when douchebags like you scare him."

"I didn't mean to scare you."

"You still don't get it. You _didn't_ scare me. You scared _him_." Kurt pulled at the hair behind his ear, twirling it around his finger as he leaned his elbow on the tiny desk.

"Can I talk to Kurt now?" Blaine asked shakily.

"Depends. Are you going to be an asshole?"

"N-no."

"Fine."

Kurt's eyes seemed to shut off again, making Blaine feel sick. A few seconds later, Kurt blinked and looked around, sensing that there had been a lapse in time.

"Kurt? Is that you?"

Kurt swallowed and nodded. "Oh, god, who—?" he started, his voice returned to its usual pitch and tone.

"Eleanor."

"She didn't… do anything, did she?"

Blaine shook his head.

"I'm so sorry, Blaine, I was trying to keep them—"

"It's okay, Kurt. You don't need to say anything." Blaine grabbed his bag from where he'd dropped it on the floor, walking out of the classroom and leaving Kurt by himself.


	4. In Plural

_In Plural  
><em>

When Finn returned home after school, he found that Kurt had come home early and was standing in the kitchen, drinking a cup of tea and looking like he was about to cry. Finn stomped the snow off his boots and hung his jacket up by the door before asking Kurt what was wrong.

"I cannot believe you told Blaine about us," Kurt said, his voice cracked. Finn could hear that he'd already been crying a good deal during the afternoon.

Finn sighed. "I knew you were going to be mad at me, dude, but Blaine's got a right to know. I mean, you were kinda betraying his trust."

"_You_ betrayed _my_ trust, Finn!" Kurt cried, slamming his mug down on the counter.

"Yours or theirs?"

"_All_ of ours!" Kurt wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve, his skin reddened. "We've been getting better, okay? And then you just waltz in and decide to cause so much stress that Eleanor decides to pop out and yell at Blaine _at school_? Are you _insane_?"

With anyone else, Finn would raise his voice to defend himself, but he'd learned a long time ago that if he escalated along with Kurt, then it would only make it easier for the alternative personalities to take over. Now, he made sure to keep his voice level as he said, "Kurt? It's okay. Calm down."

"It is not okay, Finn!"

The door opened behind them and Burt came in, shrugging off his coat. He glanced between his son and stepson. "What's not okay?"

Kurt took a long breath to try to steady himself, looking out the window. "Finn told Blaine about us."

Burt's gaze whipped over to Finn. "Is that true?"

"…Yeah."

"Jesus, Finn, what the hell were you thinking?"

"Blaine deserves to know," Finn repeated. "Kurt owes—"

"Kurt does not owe anyone anything," Burt said sternly, his hands planted on his hips. "Look, kid, you're as much a part of this family as any of us, but Kurt and I have been dealing with this for a lot longer than you have and you didn't have a right to talk to Blaine about this without Kurt's permission. It's Kurt's responsibility to tell someone if he wants them to know, and—"

"_I HATE YOU!_"

Finn and Burt jumped. Neither of them had noticed that while Burt had been talking, Kurt had checked out and someone else had taken his place. From the voice that was coming out of Kurt's mouth, Finn could tell immediately who it was.

"I'm sorry, Tyler," he said softly.

"Daddy, Finn is a _mean person_!" Kurt sobbed, his chest heaving. "He told everyone our secret!"

Burt nodded, wrapping his arms around Kurt's shoulders as he shuddered. Kurt's arms were cradled against his chest as he buried his face in his father's shirt, his sobs now muffled by the green plaid flannel. "I know, Ty, but you're okay. You're gonna be fine," Burt soothed.

None of Kurt's alters were easy to deal with, but Finn always had an extra hard time staying in the same room whenever Tyler came out. According to Kurt's therapist Dr. Goldberg, Tyler was Kurt himself frozen at age eight, from the time of the accident. Tyler was the only personality who didn't repress any memories at all, and so was the only personality who was actually depressed.

While Eleanor and Craig were violent or abusive most of the time, four-year-old Zack was constantly giggling and drawing pictures, and Robbie was always sullen but otherwise harmless. Finn knew that there was also a man named Truman, who was in his twenties and a bit of a party boy, but Finn had never met him since Truman only surfaced when Kurt needed to feel loose, which was… pretty much never.

Tyler, on the other hand, never seemed to have any specific reason for coming out other than general stress, and would appear at random times, sometimes even when Kurt appeared to be stress-free.

Now, Kurt's sobs were finally starting to fade into hiccoughs, his face flushed and his eyes puffy. "Feeling better, kiddo?" Burt asked softly.

"I still hate Finn," Kurt sniffed, his words still muffled by Burt's shirt.

Finn swallowed. He knew that a normal eight-year-old saying that he hated someone was generally not a true depiction of whatever they were feeling, but it was difficult to hear it coming from Kurt. "Tyler?" Finn ventured. "Can you look at me for a second?"

Kurt didn't say anything, but he did turn his head so that he was looking at Finn without moving away from his father's comforting hold. He hiccoughed again.

"Tyler, I'm really sorry that I told Blaine," Finn said, giving Kurt the most earnest look that he could muster up so that Tyler would understand he was honest. "Okay? I'm sorry."

"Mm-hm." Kurt nodded slightly but buried his face into Burt's shoulder again. That was another characteristic of Tyler – he had a hard time making eye contact with most people, especially if he was upset.

"Tyler, can I have a hug?" Finn ventured.

"No."

"Okay."

Several minutes passed before Kurt pushed his father away, Tyler obviously retreated to some dark recess of Kurt's brain. "Hey, Kurt, welcome back," Burt said with a smile.

"He's not back," Kurt snapped in Eleanor's voice. His sharp gaze turned to Finn. "You are an _asshole_. Do you have _any_ idea how upset we are?"

Finn swallowed audibly. No matter how often he heard it, any one of Kurt's personalities referring to themselves in plural still raised the hairs on the back of his neck. "I know," he said. "I told Kurt and Tyler that I was sorry."

Kurt's arms crossed over his chest. "Kurt and Tyler aren't the only ones you've pissed off. You should be happy it's me right now and not Craig."

"I don't think that yelling at Finn more is going to do any good," Burt interrupted gently. "He said he was sorry; not much more he can do." He placed a hand on Kurt's shoulder, but Kurt slapped it away.

"Don't touch me."

"Sorry." Burt backed off calmly.

Finn steeled his nerves before attempting another apology. "I promise, I'm really—"

He was cut off by a swift punch in the jaw that he hadn't seen coming. "_YOU ALWAYS PROMISE!_" Kurt screamed. Burt grabbed his wrists from behind before Kurt could strike Finn again.

Fortunately for Finn (and Burt, since Eleanor's rage was sometimes directed at Hummel Senior), when Eleanor was in control, Kurt's body fully believed that it belonged to an eleven-year-old girl, and so there was never really that much force behind her physical attacks.

Kurt was breathing hard, trying to break free of Burt's hold and glaring at Finn with so much intense anger that Finn would not have been surprised if a hole was burned through his letterman jacket.

"Eleanor, let me talk to Kurt now," Burt ordered firmly as Kurt struggled.

"He doesn't want to talk to you," Kurt snarled breathlessly, his back arching and his fists clenching so tightly that his nails were drawing blood from his palms.

Suddenly, with a jerk and a twist of his arms that Burt hadn't expected, Kurt broke free and lunged straight for Finn. Finn barely managed to seize Kurt's arms and spin the smaller boy around so that his arms were pinned to his chest. He held Kurt as tightly as he could without breaking any ribs. This was something Finn had done repeatedly with Eleanor whenever she became too aggressive – keeping her prisoner until she allowed Kurt to come back or one of the less aggressive alters to take over.

Now, though, Eleanor seemed to be dead set on maintaining control. "_Let me go!_" Kurt yelled, kicking his legs and stomping on Finn's toes. "_I'm gonna rip you to shreds! I hate you!_"

"We are not letting you go until we can talk to Kurt," Burt said.

Kurt let out a wordless growl as he tried to twist out of Finn's iron hold. A second growl, louder and higher-pitched than the first, escaped his throat a few seconds later, and then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. The growls quickly escalated into angry screams, but Finn didn't loosen his arms as he felt Kurt's body tense and squirm and jerk.

In that moment, Finn truly did regret telling Blaine – if he hadn't, this rare fit of hysteria wouldn't have taken place. But as it was, all he could do was hold Kurt and wait for the screaming to stop.


	5. Trigger Finger

_Trigger Finger  
><em>

Kurt wasn't at school the next day. Blaine sat quietly in the back during Glee rehearsal, and felt like hitting something when he heard Finn tell Mr. Schuester that Kurt just wasn't feeling well. He suddenly remembered a series of absences over the course of the several months that Blaine had been in attendance at McKinley, when Kurt "hadn't felt well" and Finn had casually told anyone who asked that Kurt just had a cold, that it was nothing big and he'd be back the next day.

After rehearsal, Blaine walked with Mercedes to the library to spend a couple hours on their homework before heading home. This was usually something they did with Kurt, and since Kurt wasn't there to distract Mercedes, she immediately picked up on the fact that Blaine was preoccupied.

"What's up?" she asked. "You haven't cracked a smile in at least three days, and even Santana's starting to get freaked out that you haven't popped up with a new Katy Perry number since last week."

"I'm fine," Blaine replied, a little too snappishly to abate Mercedes' interest.

She cocked an eyebrow. "The last time you used that tone of voice, you nearly kicked the crap out of Sam. Spill."

"Mercedes, it's none of your business."

She shrugged. "Okay. At least say that instead of BS-ing me with 'I'm fine'."

Blaine was surprised but also grateful that she'd backed off, and she didn't bring it up again for the duration of their ninety minutes in the library poring over physics, Shakespeare, and Spanish conjugations. Just as they were packing up their books to head home, Kurt entered the library, looking rushed and worried.

"Kurt? What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in bed," Mercedes said with a smile, straightening her best friend's sweater collar.

Kurt was out of breath. "I'm feeling better now; I just… I need to talk to Blaine about something," he panted.

Mercedes glanced back to where Blaine was frozen by the table, his eyes wide like a deer in headlights, and she frowned at Kurt. "If you two are fighting, I expect a full explanation later," she told him sternly before saying a quick goodbye and leaving the two of them alone.

"Can you… Can you sit down? Please?" Kurt said, looking hopeful more than anything else.

Blaine's jaw clenched, but he sat. Kurt sank into the chair across from him.

"I'm glad I caught you," said Kurt. "I wasn't sure you would pick up if I called."

Blaine said nothing.

"Blaine, I've… I've been doing a lot of thinking," Kurt said quietly. "I know I kept a lot of things from you because of how scared I was of how you'd react. To be honest, I'm still scared. _Really_ scared."

Blaine swallowed, waiting for Kurt to continue. He was still at a complete loss for what to say or do, and he knew that his own avoidance was making Kurt feel even worse, but he had no idea how to be around Kurt any more. He wasn't sure whether he had to be walking on eggshells or running to catch up, and he didn't comprehend what could trigger a switch or what to do if Kurt turned violent.

"But… the reason you didn't find out until now is that I'm never stressed around you," Kurt said, his voice cracking as he looked Blaine in the eye. "You make me feel _safe_. And that's… that's something that's really hard to come by for me." Kurt took a long breath, trying to calm himself. He was so nervous that his hand shook as he reached across the table to brush his fingers over Blaine's wrist.

Blaine didn't pull away from the touch, but he didn't respond to it either. "I don't understand what you're trying to say."

Kurt drew his hand back, running his fingers through his hair. "I want you to stay," he said. "I want that more than anything, and I know that sounds selfish, but I don't know what I'd do without that feeling of security in my life."

"Kurt, I—"

"But," Kurt interrupted. "I also understand that if I even ask you to do that, then you should know… what happened."

Blaine swallowed again, this time audibly. "Okay," he said, feeling a little nauseous. He wasn't sure that he wanted to know what Kurt had experienced, but he was at least willing to let Kurt tell him if that was what he needed. "I'm listening."

Kurt sighed, shutting his eyes tightly as if he were trying to hold back tears. "I – I can't tell you."

"…What—?"

"Blaine, I don't have any of those memories." Kurt's body seemed to be crumpling in on itself as he ventured further and further outside of his comfort zone. Blaine prayed that whatever was going on in Kurt's head wouldn't make him switch, because Blaine didn't think he could handle that again.

"Kurt, if you don't remember the accident, then how—?"

"Tyler remembers." Kurt's eyes were still squeezed shut, but a few tears had escaped and made their way down to his chin. "I know it's a lot to ask, but will you talk to him? Even if you decide to leave, I want you to at least understand why I am the way I am."

Blaine felt his stomach twist painfully in his gut. "Kurt, I don't know—" He gulped, trying to push down the bile in his throat. "I don't think I can do that."

"Please," Kurt whispered. "For me. Not for us – for _me_."

For a second, Blaine thought that the 'us' referred to Kurt's other personalities, but then he realized that it actually referred to the relationship between the two tangible people in the room.

He blew out a heavy breath through his mouth. "Okay," he said. "If that's what you want."

* * *

><p>In half an hour, Kurt and Blaine were in the Hudson-Hummels' living room, Kurt anxiously sitting on the far left of the couch and Blaine cross-legged on the floor, propping his elbows against his knees. Kurt was staring off into space, jiggling his leg in uneasiness.<p>

"Kurt, you okay?" Blaine asked.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Sorry, I'm just…" Kurt trailed off and Blaine nodded, pretending he knew what Kurt was feeling.

At the moment, they were waiting for Finn to come downstairs. Kurt had asked Finn to be there with Blaine during… whatever was going to happen (Blaine was still really unclear on what that was), and Finn had gone upstairs to get Raleigh. Blaine had been confused and slightly horrified that there might have been an eighth personality, but then Kurt had assured him that Raleigh was only a stuffed animal that Tyler liked to have with him.

Finally, Finn hopped down the stairs with a worn stuffed elephant in his hand. "Found him," he said, handing the elephant to Kurt. "He was under your bed."

"Thanks."

Blaine had seen the elephant in Kurt's room before and figured that it was nothing more than a childhood toy that Kurt couldn't bring himself to throw away, never once thinking that it was still used for any purpose. Kurt set Raleigh on the cushion next to him as Finn sat in the armchair closest to Kurt and Blaine.

"You ready?" Finn said, though it was unclear which boy he was talking to.

Kurt took a deep breath before nodding. "Okay."

"See you in a bit." Finn leaned forward. "Tyler, can I talk to you for a minute?" he called softly.

Kurt cast a look in Blaine's direction that was so full of pure, raw _fear_ that it made Blaine's heart skip. The look only lasted for a moment, however, as Finn called Tyler's name again and Kurt's body suddenly relaxed, sinking into the cushions as his eyes slid out of focus.

"Tyler, come on out. I want to talk to you," Finn repeated.

Kurt didn't move for several minutes, his eyes moving back and forth but not landing on anything in particular.

"Isn't the switch supposed to happen quickly?" Blaine whispered nervously.

"Not when you actually try to get one of them out," Finn explained, keeping an eye on his stepbrother. "And dude, don't worry. I'll do the talking. This might get a little disturbing."

"Have you done this before?"

Finn shook his head. "No, I don't know what Kurt saw exactly. I've never talked to him about it. This'll be the first time I hear any of the details." He paused for a minute, then glanced at Blaine. "Dude, I hope you realize how _big_ this is, that Kurt's willing to do this for you."

Blaine's eyebrows knitted together, but he wasn't given a chance to respond, as Kurt's eyes snapped open and Finn's attention shifted. Kurt pulled himself up on the couch so that his legs were crossed under him and he grabbed Raleigh, holding him in his lap. "Hi," he said, his voice disconcertingly young, though the tone was far more innocent than the voice that Eleanor possessed.

"Hey, Ty," said Finn.

"Raleigh says hi too." Kurt picked up the elephant and wagged a front leg so that it was waving at Finn.

"Hi, Raleigh." Finn leaned his chin on his fist. "Ty, I need to talk to you about something that's really important. You think you can do that?"

Kurt was intently studying the fur on the back of Raleigh's head and didn't seem to be listening. "I dunno," he said.

"I want to talk about the accident with Mom. Is that okay?"

Kurt hid his face behind Raleigh, drawing his knees up to his chest. "I don't want to talk about that."

"I know it's hard," Finn said. "But it's really, really important to Kurt that you do."

"Kurt wants me to?" Kurt asked, peeking out from behind Raleigh's ear for a moment. Finn nodded, and Kurt drew the elephant close to his chest, wrapping his arms around it tightly.

Blaine felt numb watching Kurt behave like a small boy; he hadn't quite accepted that Tyler was a separate entity from Kurt and that, as far as Tyler was concerned, he _was_ a small boy. Blaine was suddenly very, very grateful that Finn had offered to ask the questions. He didn't think he could hold himself together, much less Kurt.


	6. Grand Slam

_Grand Slam  
><em>

Blaine watched in silence. He was finally beginning to grasp a little of what Finn had meant that night in the diner by saying that these alternate personalities, even though they shared the same body, were different people independent of one another. While Blaine's earlier encounter with Eleanor had been frightening on multiple levels, Tyler seemed to be an entirely normal eight-year-old boy (other than the fact that he had an eighteen-year-old body in the form of Blaine's boyfriend), and Blaine found himself wanting to back out of his decision to dig into Kurt's past experiences just so that Tyler wouldn't get upset.

"Ty, can you tell me how the accident happened?" Finn was saying, making sure to keep his voice low and soft so as not to scare Kurt.

Kurt kept his knees drawn up to his chest, curling into a sort of ball around the stuffed elephant and refusing to make eye contact with either Finn or Blaine. "A big truck hit our car on the side," he said quietly, his words slightly muffled.

"On your mom's side of the car?"

Kurt nodded.

"Okay. What happened then?"

A strange whimpering sound came from Kurt's throat. "I don't want to tell you."

Finn reached over and wrapped his fingers around one of Kurt's hands. "It's okay, Ty, I'm right here. What happened after the truck hit the car?"

"S-spinning," said Kurt, whimpering again. "The car's on its side and Momma's over me."

"She's still in her seat?" Finn prodded, squeezing Kurt's hand.

Kurt nodded, curling more tightly around Raleigh, and didn't speak again until Finn prompted him. "I don't want to look at it," he whined.

"Tyler, look at me." Kurt managed to open his watery eyes and glance for a moment at Finn. "You're here in our living room, okay? You're not in the car. It's just a memory," Finn told him. "Can you feel my hand?"

"Mm-hm."

"Right. As long as you can feel my hand, you know you're okay." Finn gave Kurt's hand another reassuring squeeze. "What do you see in the car?"

Kurt let out a small sob. "There's blood."

"Yours?"

He shook his head, clutching Raleigh. "Momma's." There was an abrupt, sharp intake of breath, and he cried, "Wake up!"

"You're okay, Ty," Finn said loudly. "You're fine."

Blaine could feel a rock (hell, it was a _boulder_ at this point) pressing against the walls of his throat, and when he tried to swallow the awful taste in his mouth, it only succeeded in making him wince. He could see that Finn was terrified, and was amazed that the normally socially-awkward boy seemed to really know what to do even when Kurt was panicking. Blaine found himself wondering for the thousandth time just how often Kurt had to switch in order for Finn to be so familiar with the process.

"Tyler, can you tell me what's happening?" Finn requested gently.

Kurt's head gave a tiny shake. "I don't want to."

"Just tell me what you see."

"Lots of blood," Kurt sobbed into Raleigh's fur, moving so that he was leaning against the arm of the couch. He was trying to be smaller, less noticeable. "It's all over the car and it's all over me and it smells bad." His whole body shuddered for a moment.

Finn exchanged a look with Blaine, looking like he was about to vomit. He somehow was able to keep his voice calm and level, though, as he reminded Kurt that he was all right.

"Momma's head is open."

The color drained from Blaine's face, and he ran a hand over his mouth in an attempt to rid himself of a sudden wave of nausea.

"_Momma!_" Kurt screamed, his body spasming. His eyes were tightly closed, his chest heaving. "I can't move!" he sobbed. "I can't move!"

"Feel my hand, Tyler," Finn coached. "When you feel my hand, you know you're okay, remember?"

Kurt was hyperventilating, winding the fingers of his free hand into his hair. "I don't want to do this any more," he wailed, his voice high-pitched and stretched, his face wet and blotchy. "Please don't make me do this."

"Stay with me, Ty," Finn said, grasping Kurt's hand tighter.

"Finn," Blaine whispered, barely loud enough to be heard over Kurt's cries. "Finn, this is torture."

Finn sighed, keeping his strong grip around Kurt's fingers. "I know," he said. "But Kurt _wants_ you to do this, even if Tyler doesn't. How do you think Kurt's going to feel if you tell him you just didn't want to hear it?"

Blaine wanted to protest and say that he was only trying to keep Kurt from getting hurt, but he honestly was not sure if that was true.

Finn gave him a strange 'I told you so, but I wish I hadn't' look before returning his attention to Kurt, who was still crying into Raleigh's belly. "Tyler, are you okay?" he asked.

Kurt broke Finn's hold on his fingers and wrapped his arms around his head, completely obscuring his face from Finn and Blaine. "I'm tired," he whined. "I want to go to sleep."

"Just a little longer, Ty," Finn assured him. "Can you go back to the car? What stopped you from moving?"

Another strangled whimper came from Kurt's throat, and his shoulders shook. "The s-seatbelt's jammed."

"Was there anyone else there?"

"No. Just Momma." Blaine hadn't thought it was possible, but Kurt pulled his legs even closer to his chest, his arms still cradling his head.

Finn was about to ask another question, but Kurt abruptly let out a scream, his hands curling into fists. Blaine flinched, feeling like he should be doing something other than just sitting there. Kurt screamed again, and then again. Finn quickly moved to sit on the couch next to him and grabbed his hand again, placing his other hand on Kurt's shoulder. The soothing gesture didn't have much of an effect, though, as Kurt's screams only grew louder.

"Feel my hand, Tyler," Finn said loudly. "It's okay; you're okay."

Kurt's body seemed to be rocking back and forth slightly of its own accord, his fists clenching and unclenching rapidly. His screams had finally faded into choking moans, and Blaine was glad he couldn't see Kurt's face.

"Ty, can you tell me what just happened?" Finn pressed, squeezing Kurt's shoulder. He brushed his hand over Kurt's hair, trying to calm him down. "It's all right to talk about it. Nobody's going to hurt you."

"M-M-Momma's brains and stuff are coming out," Kurt wailed, his words distorted through Raleigh's stuffing. "There's blood coming out her mouth."

"Remember where you are, Ty," Finn reminded him. "It's only a memory. How long were you there?"

"I don't know! _I don't want to do this any more!_" Kurt's voice had risen to a scream again.

"Finn!" Blaine pleaded. "We've heard enough!"

Finn nodded in agreement, his face pinched. "Tyler, you don't have to talk any more, I promise."

"More promises, huh?"

Blaine almost fell over backwards, he was so startled by Eleanor's voice replacing Tyler's. The switch had happened so quickly that neither boy had seen any indication whatsoever that Tyler was no longer there, and Finn appeared just as shocked as Blaine, if not more so. Kurt had wrenched his hand away from Finn and tossed Raleigh onto the floor, where the elephant flopped limply against Blaine's feet, its plastic beaded eyes staring crookedly upwards.

"Oh, look, it's the douchebag again!" Kurt exclaimed, his voice oozing with pure loathing as he noticed Blaine. He sat forward, his legs unfolding for the first time since Kurt had checked out. "Who'd you scare this time?"

"Hey—" Finn started, about to protest in Blaine's defense.

"Save it," Kurt snapped, standing up and striding out towards the kitchen with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Blaine watched his boyfriend disappear down the hall, stunned. "What… what now?"

Finn shrugged, leaning back against the couch. "I don't know. We should give him a minute, though. Eleanor might have a fit if we bother him too soon."

Blaine nodded wordlessly, his mind still reeling. He couldn't quite fathom that it was possible for Kurt to be clutching a toy and screaming one second and storming off in annoyance the next. Nor did he understand how the hell Finn could live with it.

"You knew exactly what to say," Blaine said thoughtfully.

Finn shook his head. "No, I think I pushed him too much. I was just as freaked out as you were." Then he looked at Blaine askance. "Wait, dude… are you like, worried that you're not good enough or something? 'Cause that is _really_ untrue."

"Thanks," Blaine said. "I think. But no, that wasn't what I was thinking. I just… God, how long was he stuck in that car? Do you know?"

"Kurt was never able to tell me anything about it, but Burt knew the vague details of what happened, and it wasn't really that hard to fill in the gaps," Finn said. "All Burt told me was that Linda died in a… really bad way, and that the accident happened at night on a really secluded road. Plus, they didn't own any cell phones when Kurt was little, and the driver of the truck couldn't call anyone because he was dead, so it took like forever for them to get help. If I had to guess, I'd say at least four hours."

"Jesus."

Finn opened his mouth to reply, but then his face contorted into a frown and he looked towards the kitchen.

"What is it?"

"I think I heard something." Finn stood up and walked into the hall, Blaine quickly pulling himself to his feet and following behind. "Eleanor?" Finn called, approaching the kitchen. "Ele— _KURT!_"

Finn had run forward and grabbed Kurt around the torso, holding Kurt's arm away from his body, before Blaine had even seen what was happening.

The first thing he did see, however, were the drops of red on the counter, and his heart and stomach plummeted to his feet. Kurt's arm bore a cut (not deep, but enough to be one of the most frightening things Blaine had ever seen) diagonally across his inner forearm, halfway between the elbow and wrist. Clutched in the hand that Finn was holding tightly enough to bruise was a kitchen knife, and Kurt was yelling incoherently as he tried to break out of Finn's hold.

"Let Kurt out, Eleanor!" Finn shouted, struggling to keep the knife away from Kurt's body.

"_FUCK YOU!_"

Blaine was frozen for several seconds, and then as Kurt screamed, he rushed forward to help Finn wrestle the knife from Kurt's grasp. But just as he came close enough to actually do anything, Kurt and Finn's arms whipped backwards as they fought to gain control, and the sharp blade snapped back and sliced through the skin on Blaine's left cheek.

Blaine let out a yell, falling backwards with his hand over his stinging face. Finn's eyes widened at the sight of Blaine's blood leaking out of the thin cut, but he couldn't let go of Kurt, who was so far gone in hysterics that neither he nor anyone else in his head was able to notice that Blaine was hurt.

"Blaine, just stay there!" Finn shouted, out of breath. Finally, Finn slammed Kurt's hand against the counter, forcing the fingers to unlock from around the knife handle. The knife clattered into the sink and out of reach.

Blaine wiped smears of blood away from his cheek, his palm and fingers turned bright red. He stared at Kurt, whose face was contorted with so much _rage_ that he didn't look anything like Kurt at all, and Blaine suddenly felt very strongly like he needed to vomit or his skull would crack from all the pressure building up inside it.

With a bloody hand covering his face, Blaine ducked his head and all but ran out of the house.


	7. Quake

_Quake  
><em>

Feeling inexplicably nervous, Blaine kept his head down as he walked along Pierce Street in downtown Lima. It was unusually crowded – so crowded, in fact, that he'd accidentally collided with at least ten people in the last five minutes. As he pushed his way through the sea of pedestrians, his eyes remained trained on the sidewalk beneath his feet. He had a strange feeling like the concrete was about to suddenly open up and swallow him whole, but he did his best to ignore the nagging in the back of his mind and continued walking.

Only a few moments later, a deliveryman running quickly through the crowd with a package under one arm crashed into Blaine with enough force to nearly knock him over, and the package fell against the cement at his feet. Blaine picked it up and quickly handed it to the man, muttering a rushed apology, his mind elsewhere.

"No problem," said the deliveryman.

Blaine's attention snapped into the present at the sound of the man's voice. _Kurt's_ voice. He frowned and stared – standing in front of him was Kurt, in a postman's uniform, about to turn and rush off with his delivery.

"Wait, Kurt—"

Kurt turned around and gave him a strange look. "Who's Kurt?" he asked, turning around and disappearing into the crowd before Blaine could respond.

The nagging in Blaine's gut was even stronger now, and he looked around the street for a moment in confusion, only to have his stomach twist into a knot when he saw that each and every single person he could see possessed Kurt's face. Hundreds of Kurts were pushing past him on the sidewalk, driving their cars down the street, talking on cell phones, walking out of stores… They were everywhere.

"Kurt!" he yelled.

The only response was an unsynchronized chorus of "Who's Kurt?" from each Kurt within earshot.

"_Kurt!_"

"Who's Kurt?"

"Who's Kurt?"

"Who's Kurt?"

Blaine spun in a circle, his heart racing. He had to get out of here.

His eyes finally landed on a service entrance in the side of the building nearest to him, and he pushed through the crowd towards it. He yanked open the door and let it fall heavily shut behind him with a loud, echoing _clang_, plunging him into total darkness.

For a few minutes, the only sound was Blaine's breathing as he calmed himself, and he was grateful for the near silence until, somewhere off in the black, he heard raspy shallow breathing apart from his own. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the shadows, but he still could make out nothing except the damp cement floor he was standing on.

"Hello?" he called. "Anyone there?"

There was no answer. After a moment, Blaine noticed that the sound was hitched and uneven. It was crying.

"Hello?" His heart racing, he forced himself to take a few steps into the darkness towards the noise. Struggling to see, he called out again, then stopped short where he was, spotting a faint outline of… he didn't know what. Blaine stared at it for a few seconds before he realized that it was a person sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing away from him. "…Hello?" he said again, the nagging feeling that something was wrong returned to the back of his mind, stronger than ever.

The person's frame shook. He was rocking back and forth as he cried softly.

Swallowing, Blaine leaned forward and put a hand on the person's shoulder, only to yelp and yank it back, his hand coming away cold and wet. He nearly vomited when the smell of it reached his nose, realizing it was blood. Fighting the bile in bubbling in his stomach, he tried to wipe his palm off on his jeans before circling around the person crouched on the floor.

"Are you—?" he started.

The person's head snapped up, their eyes wide and afraid.

"Kurt…" Blaine whispered, feeling a sudden wave of dizziness.

Kurt was stark naked and _covered _in blood, some of it dried, some of it fresh. His hair was matted with it. There were tear tracks down his face, cutting through the reddish smears. He held up his hands, which were cupped around an obviously badly damaged human brain.

"I can't put it back together," he sniffed.

Blaine's eyes widened. "Kurt, who… whose is that? Your mom's?"

"No," Kurt hiccoughed. "It's mine." He reached up and grabbed his hair, pulling upwards until, with a sickening_ squelch_, his cranium separated from—

"_AUGH!_" Blaine sat bolt upright in bed, his chest heaving and his forehead beaded with sweat. He glanced at his hands to make absolute sure that they weren't covered in blood before wiping his clammy face. He rested his head in his palms, trying to let his nerves stop filling his skull with static.

There was a knock on the door and his mother stuck her head in. "Blaine? Are you all right? I heard a yell."

He took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine – just a bad dream. Sorry I woke you up."

"Oh my goodness – what happened to your face?"

Blaine prodded the band-aid on his left cheek. "Nothing, Mom. Kurt's got a cat."

She gave him a look like she knew he was lying. "The boy who is more obsessed with fashion than anyone else I've ever heard of has a pet that sheds all over his clothes?"

Blaine shrugged. "Yeah. Well, it's his stepmom's cat. Not very friendly."

She sighed. "Okay, well… if you need to talk about anything, I'm here."

"Thanks, Mom. Night," he said as she closed the door behind her. Rubbing his eyes, he laid back in bed and willed his body to relax, but sleep didn't come for the rest of the night.

* * *

><p>The next afternoon, Blaine was standing at his locker in the empty hallway, shoving books into his backpack as he got ready to go home. Every muscle in his body just felt <em>drained<em>, and for the first time in his life, he'd skipped out on Glee rehearsal. He simply didn't have the energy.

He was almost finished packing up when Kurt appeared from down the hall and leaned against the lockers to Blaine's right. "Where were you? Mr. Schue wanted to talk to you about a solo for Regionals – he just gave it to Puck instead."

Blaine shrugged, not looking at him as he shut his locker. "To be frank, Kurt, Regionals is kind of the least of my worries right now." He slung his backpack over his shoulders and zipped up his hoodie.

"Wait, stop—" Kurt said before Blaine could turn away, grabbing the shorter boy's shoulder. Kurt frowned at him. "What happened to your face?" he asked, though it was clear to Blaine that Kurt already knew, or at least could guess.

A muscle in Blaine's jaw twitched before he responded, "_You_ did it, Kurt."

Kurt sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Let's go in the choir room," he said quietly. "I don't want to talk in public."

Even though the hallways were unoccupied as far as they could tell, Blaine acquiesced and followed Kurt halfway down the next corridor and into the choir room. He knew that it was the only place in the school where Kurt truly felt safe, though he hadn't understood until recently just how important that was.

He was surprised when Kurt began to speak immediately. "Okay, let's get one thing straight here," he said, throwing Blaine off with an unexpected fierceness to his voice. "_I_ didn't cut you. Eleanor, or Craig, or I don't know, maybe even Robbie did. But _I_ would never do that, and you know it. So don't accuse me."

Blaine shoved his hands into his pockets, glaring. "I don't understand how you can expect me to play the dutiful boyfriend when you're hugging me one second and _nearly stabbing me_ the next. And don't think I'm going to forgive you for this just because you made me look like Inigo Montoya – you can't just throw up your hands and say it's out of your control."

"It _is_ out of my control!" Kurt cried. "That's the _point!_ I didn't crash my mother's car! I didn't _choose_ to be like this, and you of _all_ people should understand that!"

"Kurt, I swear to God, if you compare this to your sexuality, I will walk away." Kurt's mouth clamped shut, and Blaine continued. "You said it yourself – you don't know who cut me. But you know what I saw? I saw _your_ face. Not Eleanor, and not Robbie, and not Craig or anyone else's."

"I can't believe that you're actually blaming me for my condition—"

"First of all," Blaine cut in sharply. "I _don't _blame you. Kurt, what happened to you was _awful_, and I'm so sorry that you had to go through that. But just because it's something that happened to you doesn't mean you shouldn't take responsibility for it. You lied to me."

"Blaine, I am not my disease, okay? It's not who I am."

"It's multiple _personality _disorder! It's _exactly_ who you are – that's what it _means_."

His fists clenched in rage, Blaine turned and stormed out of the room. Amid all the confusion and anger and fear, he knew that he couldn't live like this. He hated himself for thinking it, but he just didn't _want_ to help Kurt.


	8. Ignorance Is Hell

_Ignorance Is Hell  
><em>

Kurt was so wrapped up in his own thoughts for the entire duration of the next day that Mercedes found herself repeating questions more than once before he would actually answer, and she said as much, pressing him for details about his conflict with Blaine. Whenever she asked about it, though, Kurt would brush her off and assure her that it was only a minor problem and that it would be solved by the end of the week – hardly worthy of gossip or advice.

"Well, you're acting like it's a lot more serious than some little spat over who should've won Project Runway," she'd retorted at lunch, adding that Blaine seemed to agree with her, since the two boys hadn't exchanged so much as a look all day.

Before they walked into Glee during the afternoon, Mercedes grabbed Kurt's arm and dragged him off to the side. "Okay, you and Blaine are actually starting to scare me, Kurt, so you'd better have an explanation for whatever's going on _right_ now," she demanded. "If you were really fighting about something insignificant, then you would have _told_ me what it was! And what the hell happened to Blaine's face?"

"Mercedes." Kurt spoke very slowly, his voice low and his eyes hard. "This is between me and Blaine."

"I'm just trying to help you, Kurt."

He exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "I know," he said, his tone softening. "I'm sorry, Cedes. But it's really not something you can help with."

"Then just _tell_ me that instead of trying to feed me some lie about it being minor," Mercedes insisted. "You know me, Kurt – even if I want to know what's going on with you, you know perfectly well that I'm going to respect it if you say you don't want to tell me about it. Why is this any different?"

Kurt sighed again, giving her a sad smile. "It isn't," he said. He draped an arm around her shoulders as they walked together into the choir room.

Rehearsal passed uneventfully (aside from Finn nearly smacking Brittany in the face when she was teaching him to twirl with his arms _in_), but Kurt and Blaine still managed to avoid each other throughout the entire meeting, purposefully choosing to sit on opposite ends of the risers. Mercedes was anything but oblivious to this, constantly keeping one eye on Kurt and the other on Blaine, but knowing she could do nothing, she silently promised to make sure she was there if and when they cracked under the pressure.

Finally, towards the end of the ninety-minute rehearsal, Kurt raised his hand and asked to have the floor. Mr. Schue nodded and sat next to Puck in the front row, watching as Kurt dragged a single stool to the middle of the room and told the band musicians that he wouldn't need them.

Kurt sat nervously in front of everyone, and rather than make any kind of introduction or give any context for the performance, he began to sing a capella, leaving the rest of the club to wonder what prompted it.

"_I dreamed I was missing,_" he started, and Mr. Schue nodded approvingly at Kurt's use of his lower range. "_You were so scared, but no one would listen, 'cause no one else cared…_"

Mercedes, however, was paying absolutely zero attention to the musical technicalities that Kurt was employing and instead was trying to deduce any sort of clue from Kurt and Blaine's body language as to what was happening between the two. While Kurt's eyes were trained on the linoleum tiles at the foot of the risers, Blaine was watching Kurt with an unnerving wariness, like he was afraid of his own boyfriend. But that just didn't make sense – Blaine was one of the bravest kids in the club; hell, he was one of the bravest kids she _knew_.

"_When my time comes, forget the wrong that I've done. Help me leave behind some reasons to be missed… And don't resent me when you're feeling empty, keep me in your memory – leave out all the rest… Leave out all the rest…_"

As the words of the chorus sunk in, Mercedes felt a rock settle into the pit of her stomach. This song was about dying. And… oh, God. Suddenly, it _did_ make sense that Blaine was looking at Kurt with fear.

"_Don't be afraid,_" Kurt sang, and it sounded like he was speaking directly to Blaine. "_I've taken my beating – I've shed, but I'm me. I'm strong on the surface, not all the way through… I've never been perfect, but neither have you._"

The rest of the club seemed to finally be picking up on the fact that the song really seemed to mean something important; it was nowhere near an everyday plea for a solo at their next competition.

"_Forgetting all the hurt inside I've learned to hide so well,_" Kurt continued, finally managing to look up at Blaine, who immediately shifted his gaze to his lap. "_Pretending someone else can come and save me from myself – I can't be who you are…_"

Mercedes watched Blaine as his body grew more and more stiff, his face pale. She hoped to God Himself that the problem between the two was not what she thought it was. If Kurt was even _considering_… She was so going to beat him upside the head.

"_When my time comes, forget the wrong that I've done – help me leave behind some reasons to be missed… And don't resent me when you're feeling angry, keep me in your memory. Leave out all the rest… Leave out all the rest…_

"_Forgetting all the hurt inside you've learned to hide so well… Pretending someone else can come and save you from myself – I can't be who you are… I can't be who you are…_"

Mercedes didn't miss the subtle word change in the last chorus, but any questions she had for Kurt would have to wait until later, as the rest of the club (except for Blaine) was applauding and drowning out anything that was unspoken.

* * *

><p>Right after Glee let out, Mercedes watched as Blaine quickly strode toward the parking lot, then she followed Kurt down the hall to the bathroom, making sure that he was not aware of her presence. In the boys' room, she leaned against the sinks and waited for him to finish his business in the stall. When he emerged, he stopped short for a moment, caught off-guard, but then he walked forward and rolled up his sleeves to wash his hands.<p>

"Is this a surprise interrogation?" he asked calmly, running his hands under the faucet.

Mercedes, however, felt her heart _plummet_ as she spotted the long, thin, scabbed-over slice on Kurt's forearm, and she suddenly realized that there were a handful more faint white lines beneath it, criss-crossing over his skin and barely contrasted enough to notice. Her eyes welled up. "Oh my God, _Kurt_—"

He frowned at her, genuinely confused. "What—?" He was cut off as Mercedes engulfed him in a sudden hug.

"Kurt, we all love you," she said firmly, wiping her eyes as she stepped away a few moments later. "You don't have to feel like this."

He stared at her. "Mercedes… _what_ are you talking about?"

"Your… your arm—"

He glanced down at it. "Yeah, so…?" Then, comprehension cleared his face. "Oh, honey. I didn't do this – I just cut myself on an engine the other day when I was helping out in the shop." He smiled, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze. "Don't worry about me, okay? I'll be terrorizing you for a long time. I promise."

Despite her almost-crushing relief from Kurt's assurances, Mercedes was about to pressure him further about the older scars, but then his sleeves were rolled down so quickly that she wasn't sure she hadn't imagined them.

* * *

><p>Will Schuester was not a total idiot. He was oblivious a lot of the time, yes, but he <em>did<em> pick up on some things, and he had noticed a lot of tension between Kurt and Blaine during the club meeting that afternoon. So, after a long evening of watching a romantic movie while cuddling on the couch with Emma, he brought his laptop with him to bed as she went to sleep beside him, and pulled up the home page of the McKinley gossip blog.

He was greeted with the site banner that read _THE GRAPEVINE – We Stalk McKinley High's Buzz-Worthiest So You Don't Have To!_ in horribly colorful WordArt juxtaposed over a large Star of David. He really hated to admit that he checked the blog fairly regularly, but it had proven to be a useful gauge of what was going on with his students, even though sometimes the publications were falsified and/or trivial. Generally, if one of his closer students (namely those in the Glee club) were in trouble, he wanted to know about it, and Jacob Ben Israel's horrible blog was the most efficient reference (as disgusting as it might be to think about).

He scrolled through the most recent publications, already half-asleep since it was past midnight, not quite paying attention to most of the articles. Only a few seconds later, though, he spotted a title that caught his eye.

**_TROUBLE OVER THE RAINBOW!_**

Feeling vexed that Jacob Ben Israel and his cronies seemed to take such pride and joy in eviscerating what was left of the Glee kids' privacy, Will clicked on the link and watched as a new page loaded. This time, the title was accompanied by a subheader:

**_—McKinley's Residential Gays Are Already Headed For The Asylum—_**

He frowned. Even for Jacob Ben Israel, that title seemed to be taking it a little too far. He'd have to have a word with Jacob the next day (not that the kid would listen, but maybe he'd go to Figgins as well).

Making a mental note of his plan, Will scrolled down and began to read.

"_It seems that there's trouble in paradise for McKinley's iconic gay couple, senior Kurt 'Flaming Rainbow' Hummel and junior Blaine 'Hobbit McFrodo-Feet' Anderson. Just forty-eight hours ago, they were overheard during a very heated argument, and one source was lucky enough to capture it. Now, we present it to you, loyal readers…_"

Will's heart sank. He _really_ needed to have that talk with Jacob. This was going too far. As he read on, though, the article made less and less sense. Why was Jacob talking about straitjackets and padded cells? There was a prickling feeling at the back of his neck – something was wrong, though he wasn't able to figure out what until he noticed that at the top of the page, there was an attached audio clip. Knowing that he was going to hate whatever the clip contained, he clicked the little button and waited for it to load.

He recognized Kurt's voice first, snappishly exclaiming, "_I can't believe you're actually blaming me for my condition—_"

Blaine's voice then interrupted with, "_First of all, I don't blame you. What happened to you was _awful_, and I'm so sorry you had to go through that._"

Blaine kept talking, Will's gut twisting tighter and tighter. It was sounding more serious with every word Blaine spoke.

"_Blaine, I am not my disease, okay?!_"

Disease? God, if Kurt was dying, Will was honestly not sure how the club would handle that blow. Hell, he wasn't sure how _he_ would handle it. That particular worry, though, was squashed by Blaine's next shout.

"_It's multiple _personality_ disorder! It's exactly who you are! That's what it _means!"

The audio clip ended, and Will sat there staring at the screen, stunned. Images flashed through his head, of Blaine avoiding Kurt during rehearsal, of the mysterious injury to Blaine's face, of Finn constantly glancing over at his stepbrother like he was worried the smaller boy would suddenly fall apart. Everything abruptly made sense, and it was an _awful_ feeling.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The song used in this chapter is _Leave Out All The Rest_ by Linkin Park.**


	9. Call The Doctor

_Call The Doctor  
><em>

Puck was pissed. Actually, scratch that, he was _furious_. A single sheet of paper clutched in his hand, he stormed down the hallway towards the computer lab, entering to see Lauren idly sitting in front of one of the screens, editing a film project before her first class of the day.

"You are a _bitch_," he said in lieu of a civil greeting.

Lauren looked up, her eyebrows snapping together. "Care to elaborate?"

He held up the article, which was nearly crumpled in his hand. "You printed this crap about Kurt being insane! You know these are being handed out at the front entrance like Wendy's flyers?"

"It's not crap; it's true."

"I don't care! You went behind our backs!"

Lauren showed absolutely no signs of guilt or remorse. "First off, I didn't print it – Jacob did."

"It lists _you_ as the source for the recording!"

Lauren sighed, pursing her lips in irritation. "I'm not part of the club any more, Puckerman. Can't betray you if I'm not one of you."

"Don't use that crap as an excuse. _This_," he snarled, waving the article in her face, "is crossing a _lot_ of lines."

Lauren finally stood up, crossing her arms and somehow glaring down at him even though she was shorter. "It's _journalism_, Puck, not politics. Look, I cut a deal with Jacob _months_ agoto bug the choir room so that we'd get firsthand accounts of any drama, and frankly, you guys have been seriously boring lately. But McKinley's first gay couple on the verge of a breakup due to fact that one of them is missing more than a few wingnuts? JBI's all over this like chocolate on Oreos."

"Well, then take it back!" Puck was nearly shouting now. "Post another article that says it was – I dunno – false information or something! A bad source!"

"_I'm_ the source," Lauren snapped. "And even if I did retract the publication, it wouldn't matter. Everyone's already heard the recording – they all know."

"Then say you tampered with it!" Puck yelled, beginning to grasp at straws.

Lauren rolled her eyes. "Hummel's got the single most recognizable voice out of the entire student body. And we're a high school gossip blog, not Universal Studios. We don't have the tech to doctor _anything_ that much, let alone an audio file."

"_I don't care!_ Just do _something!_"

"What are you so worked up about anyways? I thought you hated the Hummel kid."

"I never said that."

"Well, you certainly acted like it."

Puck shook his head, crushing the article into a ball before tossing it angrily into the trash. "Jesus, Lauren."

She sighed. "Puck, if I could do something about it, I would—"

"Yeah, bullcrap," he spat, already heading for the door. "Next time you want a free makeout session in the supply closet, don't come crying to me."

* * *

><p>Kurt walked into school that morning feeling mildly nervous about seeing Blaine. The two hadn't spoken since their shouting match two days before, and yesterday it had been agonizing to be in the same room. Kurt had made himself swear to talk to Blaine before the end of the day – regardless of what Kurt wanted, he knew that Blaine at the very least deserved an apology. And if that meant throwing himself on his knees, then Kurt was willing to get his designer jeans dirty.<p>

He was halfway down the main corridor when he realized that, despite the large number of students already crowding the hall, it was suspiciously quiet. It wasn't silent – just hushed. He looked up, his heart lurching when he saw that more than half of them were looking straight at him.

_Oh, God…_

This was not the usual '_You're weird so I'm going to avoid you_' look that he received on a more than daily basis. The stares that he was getting now were disgusted, more along the lines of '_There is something deeply, deeply wrong with you_.' Most of them were also holding a single sheet of paper, glancing back and forth between it and Kurt.

Mr. Schue suddenly broke through the sea of glares and approached Kurt, obviously worried. "Kurt," he said softly, placing a hand on Kurt's shoulder. "Miss Pillsbury and I want to talk with you."

"What's going on?"

His teacher sighed. "Come on. Let's go to my office."

Mr. Schue's hand remained firmly on Kurt's shoulder the entire way to the choir room, where they entered his tiny office annex. Miss Pillsbury was sitting behind the desk, nervously examining her nails. Kurt was about to ask why, if it was a guidance counselor meeting, they weren't meeting in the guidance counselor's office, but then he realized that Miss Pillsbury's office was (ironically) far less private.

"Oh, good, you're here," Miss Pillsbury squeaked as Kurt sat in one of the two chairs across from the desk. "Blaine, please, have a seat."

Kurt's heart skipped when he noticed that Blaine had been standing at the back of the room, completely silent. Once Blaine had sunk into the other chair, and Mr. Schue was leaning against the wall to Blaine's left, Miss Pillsbury spoke, her hands flattened against the desk top.

"I'm not sure if either of you are aware that there was an article published on Jacob Ben Israel's blog yesterday evening…" she started, faltering towards the end.

Mr. Schue decided to step in. "It makes some really serious claims," he said. "And… I hate to say it, but it also provides some pretty solid evidence to back up those claims."

Blaine said nothing, and Kurt had a twisting feeling in his gut that he knew already what the problem was. Just to be absolutely sure, though, he summoned up the courage to ask what the claims were.

Miss Pillsbury clamped her lips together for a moment before admitting, "They're about your… your condition, Kurt."

Kurt's eyebrows snapped together. "You know about that?"

"I know we haven't talked about it personally, but state law requires that if there's a student with a serious mental illness, then the health officials at their school need to know about it," she explained apologetically.

Mr. Schue didn't say anything, but he looked absolutely _crushed_, like he'd been holding on to some shred of hope that the rumors weren't true and now that last shred had disintegrated.

Kurt took a deep breath, his sinuses tight like he was underwater. "What evidence were you talking about?"

"There was a recording," Miss Pillsbury said, her voice trembling. "A recording of an argument that the both of you had a couple of days ago."

Kurt rested his head in his hands, feeling more violated than he ever had during his life. Blaine asked him if he was all right.

"Look, I'm here for both of you," Miss Pillsbury assured them. "Kurt, you're under a _lot_ of stress right now, and I know that that's a… delicate situation for you. So, whatever you need, I'm here. And Blaine, you're going through a lot as well, so I'm always open to talk or suggest ways to deal with that, and whether you want to meet with Kurt or alone is up to you."

Blaine gave a silent nod, casting another nervous look in Kurt's direction. "I… I think Finn needs to be here too," he said. "He knows what to do when Kurt…" He trailed off, but luckily Mr. Schue understood what he meant and quickly left to find Finn.

"Kurt?" Miss Pillsbury ventured, her eyes wide and uncertain. "Are you all right?"

"No," he said, and Blaine was relieved to hear Kurt's voice. "How the _hell_ did they record us?"

"There were hidden microphones in the choir room," she confessed. "I don't know how long they've been there, but Mr. Schuester went through early this morning and he thinks he removed all of them. Still, we're bringing Jacob Ben Israel and Lauren Zizes in to Principal Figgins' office later today to make sure, and after that they'll most likely be suspended."

"Suspended?" Blaine echoed, still trying to keep an eye on Kurt, who was looking more and more like he was about to throw up. "They should be expelled!"

"It's not for me to decide." Despite her claim to neutrality, it was clear from the uncharacteristic force behind her tone that Miss Pillsbury wholeheartedly agreed with Blaine. "Kurt, we're going to call your parents and you can just go home early today. You can stay in here until they come to pick you up. Normally I don't encourage students to hide from embarrassment, but today I think—"

"Miss Pillsbury," Blaine cut her off. "He's not here any more."

Her eyes widened even further (something that Blaine hadn't previously thought was possible), warily staring at Kurt, whose expression and posture had gone dead a few seconds before. "Oh, gosh, is he…?"

Blaine nodded.

"Wow."

His gaze whipped over to glare at her incredulously.

"I – I just meant… I studied this kind of thing in college, but I've never…" she faltered.

"He's not a textbook, Miss Pillsbury."

* * *

><p>Mercedes hadn't fully realized just how much she hated her school until this particular morning. After walking through the front entrance and having the printed-out article shoved in front of her nose, she stormed through the hallways searching for Jacob Ben Israel. She finally spotted his frizzy red cloud of hair and cornered him by the Home Ec room.<p>

"You are a _disgusting_ human being and if it's the last thing I do, I will rip your head off and feed it to Coach Sylvester's rottweilers!"

"It's just journalism!" Jacob cried as she yelled at him, pushing him up against the wall of lockers behind him. He squirmed. "I had to find a hard-hitting story to get into Columbia!"

"You won't be getting into _anywhere_ when I'm through with you!"

Mercedes was about to continue her rant peppered with threats, but then Finn ran past them, shoving people out of the way as he headed for the choir room with Mr. Schue hot on his heels. She gave Jacob one last rough shove and promised him that they were _not_ through and if he wanted to escape her wrath he had better relocate to Mexico, then rushed off to follow Kurt's stepbrother.

At the door to the choir room, she nearly collided with Santana, who for once did not greet her with an insult. "Mercedes, what the _hell_ is going on?" she cried, holding up a copy of the article. "Is this _true_?"

"I don't know," Mercedes said breathlessly, going into the room and immediately searching for Kurt since she knew that he always came here when he was stressed. Rather than sitting on the risers alone like she expected, she spotted him through the window of Mr. Schue's office, where he was sitting with Blaine, Finn, Mr. Schue, and Miss Pillsbury all crammed into the tiny room.

Mercedes wrung her hands, chewing on her lip nervously as she watched the goings-on through the window. Finn was crouching next to Kurt's chair, speaking to him quickly and urgently, his forehead creased with more worry than she'd ever seen on his face.

Kurt's expression, on the other hand, was what really made her heart skip. His fingers were gripping the chair arms so tightly that she could see the white skin on his knuckles from where she stood, and his face seemed… bent. The angles of his profile were all wrong – she'd never seen him this angry and unhappy and _scared_ all at once, and it was changing his very shape.

She gasped, her hands flying over her mouth, when Kurt's arm suddenly lashed out and struck Finn across the face, who, rather than look at his stepbrother in shock, simply grabbed his wrists as if this were an everyday occurrence. Miss Pillsbury, Mr. Schue, and Blaine all looked like they would rather be _anywhere_ but there.

"Jesus," Santana said, Mercedes suddenly remembering that the Latina was with her. "Jew-Fro was telling the truth."

Mercedes didn't know why it had taken her this long to realize it, but it wasn't until Santana had said so that she finally began to see (if not understand) that Kurt… wasn't Kurt.

She had barely had enough time to process this when Kurt abruptly let out a bloodcurdling scream directed specifically at Finn. Mercedes and Santana flinched simultaneously and watched as Blaine quickly stood up and slammed the door behind him as he came into the choir room, his arms hugging his chest and his eyes glued to the floor.

"Blaine—" Mercedes started.

He held up a hand. "Not now," he snapped, heading for the door to the hallway. "Just… not now."

The two girls watched him disappear into the corridor, then yelling from Mr. Schue's office drew their attention back. Mercedes couldn't quite make out any of the words, but Kurt was doing most of the yelling while Finn attempted unsuccessfully to keep him calm.

The most terrifying moment, though, was after Kurt finally stopped shouting. He paced a few steps towards the window, his hands wound into his hair, and he stood there for a few seconds, his chest heaving as he tried to breathe evenly.

And then, he drew his head back and rammed it with tremendous force into the glass.

Mercedes shrieked and Santana backed up several steps, swearing under her breath in Spanish. Kurt's head struck the window one more time before Finn was able to pull him away, nearly lifting him off the ground as Kurt thrashed at him, a trickle of blood winding its way down his forehead.

Santana grabbed Mercedes' arm, pulling her towards the door. "Come on, let's get out of here," she said.

"What? No." Mercedes wrenched her arm away from Santana, glaring at her incredulously. "I'm not leaving him!"

"Mercedes," Santana said slowly, surprising Mercedes with the use of her actual name. "_Look _at him. He's psychotic! Finn and the germophobe can handle it, and you're not even in there with them, so there is _nothing _you can do. You saw what happened to Blaine's face—"

"You don't know that that was Kurt."

"Oh, right! Maybe it was the person that just tried to _run his head through a window_!"

Mercedes' jaw clenched, sheer _rage_ bubbling through her veins at Santana's insistence. She was about to snap back with some sort of speech about sticking together, complimented with a threat, but the door to Mr. Schue's office burst open behind her.

And all hell broke loose.


	10. Twist And Shout

_Twist And Shout  
><em>

Kurt was the first person out of the office, Finn tumbling after him and screaming for Mercedes and Santana to lock the doors as Emma and Will rushed after him. Santana spun around and immediately did what she was told, but Mercedes remained rooted to the spot, staring in horror as Kurt clawed at his stepbrother's face. Finn was trying to grab Kurt's wrists to keep him from scratching his eyes, but Kurt snarled and sunk his teeth into Finn's forearm. Finn yelped, yanking his arm away, a sluggishly-bleeding crescent left torn through the skin.

Will had absolutely no idea what to do, so he stood on the sidelines like an idiot. Emma gasped next to him and backed several feet away, almost tripping over the risers. "This is so out of my league," he heard her whisper.

"_Stay away from me,_" Kurt hissed, flecks of Finn's blood staining his teeth, and Will felt the ground sway under his feet. He didn't know how, after hearing the recording of Blaine and Kurt arguing, he'd still believed that Kurt was fine. Now, whatever naïve ideas he'd had of Kurt and Blaine just role-playing for NYADA auditions or something dumb like it were crushed into dust, and Will was paralyzed.

"Eleanor, you need to _calm down_," Finn said firmly and loudly, cradling his arm.

"NO!" Kurt screamed, his entire body spasming. His forehead was still bleeding from its encounter with the windowpane, a thick red tendril winding it's way down to Kurt's nose. "I'm always shoved into the back of Kurt's head and when I do come out, you tell me to shut up! I'm _sick of it!_"

"Holy…" Will breathed. He saw Santana grab Mercedes' arm and pull her towards the door, but Finn spotted them and ordered them not to unlock the door.

"Smart," Kurt spat. "Otherwise I might start biting people's _necks_." He flashed a furious grin, his head tilting to the side. Will felt Emma edge closer to him.

Finn winced but held his ground as Kurt bared his teeth. Will could easily see that Finn was trying his best to not crumple under the pressure smothering the room.

Kurt lunged again.

* * *

><p>Outside the locked door, Rachel stood rigidly hugging her abdomen and leaning against the wall as she listened to the goings-on in the choir room. Artie was sitting in his chair beside her, just as quiet, and Tina and Mike stood behind him. Puck was leaning against the wall opposite Rachel. The bell had already rung for first period, so the hallway was empty aside from the five of them, and the only sounds were slightly muffled through the choir room door.<p>

"_Smart!_" they heard Kurt's distorted voice exclaim, his rage seeping through the wall. "_Otherwise I might start biting people's necks!_"

Rachel flinched, squeezing her eyes shut as a few tears that she'd been trying to hold back escaped.

Artie craned his neck and pushed himself up on his arms, attempting for the umpteenth time to see through the narrow window in the door. "Can someone please tell me what's happening in there?"

"I don't want to watch," Tina said softly, leaning into Mike's side. Mike made a noise of agreement. Rachel and Puck said nothing.

A moment later, there was a loud yelp from the other side of the door, and Mike gave in to his curiosity and tilted his head to look through the window, only to quickly straighten up again with a nauseous expression.

"What?" Artie prompted.

Mike was about to reply, but a scream from Kurt stabbed through the door, making all five of them jump. Rather than dying out, the sound only stretched on and grew louder, and this time Puck was the one to peer inside.

"Holy _crap_," he said.

"What is it?" Artie pressed, annoyed that he wasn't able to look in himself. "What's happening?"

Puck didn't hear him. Finn and Kurt had somehow ended up on the ground, Finn pinning his stepbrother on the floor with his hands holding Kurt by the head, his palms covering the smaller boy's ears as Kurt screamed. Kurt's fingers were scratching desperately at the backs of Finn's hands, his nails drawing skin and blood. Somehow, Finn was paying no attention to his hands, and instead was looking Kurt firmly in the eye, refusing to let him move away.

"_Let Kurt out!_" Puck heard Finn demand.

Puck swore again under his breath as Kurt kicked at his stepbrother, still screaming incoherently (how the hell did he have space in his lungs for that much air?). Puck couldn't see Kurt's face, but he knew that even if he could, Kurt would look nothing like himself.

"What's happening?" Artie insisted. "Stop ignoring me!"

Puck pulled his eyes away from the window, turning around so he wouldn't have to watch any more.

* * *

><p>At the moment, the only thing Finn gave a crap about was getting Kurt home. Kurt was already going to have enough trouble getting over the sheer indignity of having an episode like this at school for everyone to see (or hear, considering how much Kurt was screaming), and Finn knew from experience that sleep was usually the best cure for stress. Kurt tended to switch much more often if he didn't sleep well.<p>

Finn needed to figure out a way to get him from the choir room to the parking lot in one piece, without letting anyone else get hurt either, but that was proving to be more and more difficult as Eleanor showed absolutely zero signs of letting go. While Finn kept him pinned against the floor, Kurt's vocal chords were beginning to wear out, his repeated screams turning hoarse. Finn had never seen one of Eleanor's fits last this long.

As Kurt's nails tore through the skin on Finn's hands and wrists again and again and again, Finn wished that he could ask Mr. Schue or Miss Pillsbury to help, but neither of them could even begin to understand what was going on inside Kurt's head at that moment. Hell, not even Finn understood it completely, but at least he had some experience.

"Let Kurt out!" Finn shouted, not allowing his grip on Kurt's head to loosen even though his hands were bleeding and beginning to drip onto the linoleum.

Kurt's screams didn't let up, but Finn wasn't sure if Eleanor was choosing not to respond or if she was simply too hysterical to comprehend anything other than her own rage. Now there were tears freely streaming out of Kurt's eyes, and Finn realized that he'd never seen Eleanor cry before.

"Finn, let me do something," Mr. Schue said behind him. Finn was pretty sure that Mr. Schue had repeated those words at least ten times since they'd arrived at the office to find Eleanor where Kurt should have been, but he was too preoccupied to actually answer.

Mercedes and Santana were frozen, standing by the drum set and just _staring_, and Finn felt bad for them. He almost told them they could leave, but he didn't want to risk Kurt making an escape if the door was unlocked.

Finally, Mr. Schue seemed to give up on asking for permission to help and knelt next to Kurt's head, grabbing Kurt's wrists and yanking them back with enough force to keep them immobile. Kurt's head twisted in Finn's grasp and his back arched rigidly, his entire body fighting with itself.

The frayed skin on Finn's hands burned, and Kurt's bloodstained fingertips rapidly curled and uncurled as Eleanor tried to break free of Mr. Schue's grip. The screams were at last beginning to die down, becoming less frequent and with longer pauses between. Kurt's lungs were heaving, trying desperately to get oxygen to his unhinged brain, his eyes wide but not really looking at anything.

"It's time to go, Eleanor," said Finn firmly.

Kurt hyperventilated for several more seconds before choking out, "I – don't – want to—"

"I know. But Kurt doesn't belong to you."

Kurt's eyes slowly moved over to meet Finn's, reddened and burning. "Yes, he does," he said.

And in a split second, Finn could see that Eleanor was gone. Kurt's limbs and muscles relaxed, his breathing evened out. His face went slack.

"…Kurt?" Finn ventured as Mr. Schue let go of Kurt's wrists. Finn took his hands away from Kurt's head.

There was no response, but somehow… Finn saw that Kurt could hear and understand him. He didn't know exactly what it was, but there was _something_ in Kurt's eyes. Something alive.

"Kurt, if that's you, answer me," Finn said, panic starting to claw at the bottom of his stomach. "If you can't talk, blink."

No blink. No answer.

"Is… is he okay?" Mercedes sniffed from her spot near the drum set, her voice quivering.

Finn gave her an honest answer. "I don't know."

"M-Maybe ask him what his name is?" Miss Pillsbury suggested, teetering on her high heels.

Willing to try anything to get a reaction from Kurt (because the screaming fits were almost preferable to this…deadness), Finn did as Miss Pillsbury said. "Who are you?"

Kurt stared at him, his eyes the only part of his entire body that showed any signs of life whatsoever.

"Who are you?" Finn asked again.

"I'm no one."

Every person in the room flinched at the odd, almost unearthly voice that came from Kurt's mouth. Finn felt his heart clench – he didn't recognize this voice. "Who am I talking to?" he demanded.

"No one."

Finn turned to Mr. Schue, his eyes wide and scared. "I've never seen this before. We need to get him home _now_."


	11. Casual Panic

_Casual Panic  
><em>

The moment after Kurt had been loaded into the back seat of Mr. Schue's car with Finn climbing in behind him, Santana left Mercedes crying onto Rachel's shoulder and stormed through the empty hallways to Blaine's locker. She was pretty sure that there was visible steam blowing out of her ears as she grabbed his combination lock and spun in the numbers of his birth date, yanking the metal door open and not caring that it banged loudly against the adjacent locker. Running a finger down the copy of Blaine's schedule taped to the inside of the door, she determined that if he'd actually gone to class he was in AP Algebra, and she immediately slammed his locker shut again.

Before opening the door to the AP Algebra classroom, Santana had to pause and wipe her face clean of any anger, instead replacing it with her best expression of worry and distress. Taking a deep breath, she entered the room and whispered "Sorry, I need to borrow Blaine – there's some bad news about his friend," to Mrs. Briggs.

Keenly aware of the fact that Blaine (along with several of the other students in the room) was watching her, she went back into the hall and waited for Blaine to be sent out. The door opened a few seconds later, and Blaine emerged, his movements agitated and his face anxious.

"Is Kurt—?" Blaine's head suddenly snapped back so quickly that his neck almost felt broken, and it took a moment for him to realize that Santana had punched him with enough force to make him dizzy and nauseous.

"Wow," said Santana, shaking her hand out. "I _really_ needed to do that. Okay, you can go back to class now." She spun around, about to walk away.

Blaine rubbed his sore jaw, already feeling a massive bruise developing underneath the skin. "Wait, Santana—"

Santana turned back around, her eyes narrowed. "What."

"Is Kurt okay?"

She glared at him incredulously. "How can you even _ask_ that?" she demanded. "I knew you weren't the brightest stripe on the rainbow flag, but _Jesus_, Anderson!"

Blaine's eyebrows snapped together. "Why does everyone think I'm the bad guy in this situation?!" he cried.

"Because you _are!_" Santana snapped. "I know you were Dalton's Golden Boy or whatever, but there _is_ a bad guy in this situation and it definitely isn't Kurt."

Blaine at least had the decency to look guilty. "I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did."

He shook his head, obviously beginning to grasp at straws. "I just… he _lied_. You're not supposed to do that to someone you love."

"Oh, cut the cheesy sentimental _crap_!" Santana retaliated. "This isn't a soap opera! Kurt is sick – it's not glamorous, it's not romantic, and it sure as hell isn't going to be easy on anyone—"

"But—"

"I never thought I'd say this, but it turns out that _Finn_ is the one who actually gives a crap about Kurt. You _clearly_ don't."

"Of course I—"

"No!" Santana cut him off by jabbing a finger at him. "Kurt lied to you. Big deal. Get over it. He lied to all of us and if you were in his position, you would do the same freaking thing, so don't even _try_ to act like you're better than him. It's disgusting."

Not allowing Blaine a chance to argue, Santana brushed past him and headed for the parking lot. Screw classes.

* * *

><p>It was around lunchtime when Mercedes decided to give up on school for the day. Her head had been spinning ever since the whirlwind (or tornado, more like) that morning, and it still hadn't <em>quite<em> sunk in that her best friend was mentally ill. All day, she'd been going through all of her memories of their friendship, searching for any clues that she might have missed over the years, and now she had a headache and a desire to do nothing more than roll into her bed and sleep for the rest of the week.

It had been her original intention to just go home, but at some point along the way she changed her mind and a few minutes later she was pulling in to park in front of Kurt and Finn's house. She wasn't surprised to see Rachel's tiny car parked behind Kurt's Navigator, but she did a double-take when she noticed that the beat-up blue pickup squatting next to the curb belonged to Puck.

Finn's mom answered the door with a bright smile that barely concealed a layer of distress, offering Mercedes a seat in the kitchen and a cup of tea. Mercedes sunk into a chair at the kitchen table, where Rachel was already sitting with Finn, bandaging one of his hands with the Hudson-Hummels' home first-aid kit open in front of them.

"Finn tried to take care of these himself," Rachel said with an affectionate roll of the eyes.

Mercedes laughed shallowly. "Finn, you know you're not allowed anywhere near medical supplies."

Finn squirmed as Rachel spread disinfectant over the bite mark on his forearm. "It's just wrapping a bandage around my hand – how complicated could it be?"

Carole set a mug of fresh tea in front of Mercedes and sat in the chair next to Finn. "Honey, I came in here and found you with a _cast_ on your hand, not a bandage."

Mercedes took a gulp of her tea, her nerves prickling. There were no screams shaking the house, but she didn't know whether that meant Kurt was back or he was still stuck in the deadened state that she'd last seen him in. "So… where's Puck?" she asked. "I saw his truck out front."

"He's in the living room with Kurt," Carole said. "They're watching _Phineas and Ferb_."

Mercedes eyebrows shot up, and she suddenly had to fight the urge to laugh. "…Really?" she said.

"It's Zack's favorite show," said Finn, scratching at one of the scabs on the hand that Rachel hadn't gotten to yet. His skin looked like it had been put through a shredder and then haphazardly taped back onto his hands and wrists.

Mercedes frowned. "Who's Zack?"

"He's a lot friendlier than Eleanor, that's for sure," Rachel said.

It took Mercedes a second to remember who Eleanor was.

Carole sipped her tea. "Zack's out now, if you want to meet him."

Mercedes hesitated, and then realized that if they had let Puck stay with Kurt alone, then whoever Zack was couldn't be dangerous. "Okay," she said.

Carole stood up and led Mercedes to the living room, where Puck was leaning back on the couch looking more than mildly amused. They were greeted by Dr. Doofenshmirtz's nasal cry of "_Curse you, Perry the Platypus!_" quickly followed by a giggle from the floor. Mercedes leaned around the couch nervously, not entirely sure of what she was going to find.

Kurt was lying on his stomach, his feet up in the air with his chin propped up on his fists. He was completely absorbed in the television screen, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open, captivated by the karate combat now taking place between Perry and Doofenshmirtz.

"Zack," Carole called. "Honey, another friend's here to see you."

"Okay," he replied, his gaze not wavering from the screen.

Puck snorted. "I don't think he heard you."

Carole patted Mercedes on the shoulder. "Why don't you have a seat," she suggested with a smile, gesturing to the couch. "The episode will be over in a couple minutes."

Mercedes sat on the couch, feeling like everyone was being far too nonchalant about the fact that Kurt was currently acting like a child. Ignoring the TV, she glanced over at the coffee table and saw that it was covered with disorganized sheets of paper, crayons and markers scattered across them. "Were you guys… coloring?"

Puck grinned. "He is _so_ into it. It'd be hilarious if it wasn't so weird." He leaned forward and grabbed one of the drawings from the table. "Check this out," he said, handing it to her. "Finn asked him to draw all of Kurt's personalities, and this is what he did."

Mercedes felt her heart skip from the sheer strangeness of the drawing. If she had found the picture in a house where a young child lived, she would have thought nothing of it, but the context and the fact that it came from Kurt made it surreal and almost creepy. The white field of the paper sported seven stick figures drawn in purple marker, with names written in the uneven and disorganized scribbles of a preschooler just learning to write.

_ZACK_ was a short stick-boy with a big smile and a balloon attached to his hand, and beside him was _T__Я__UMA__N_, a tall man with spiky hair who was dancing to the tiny music notes in the space around him. _Я__OBBIE_ had his arms crossed and had been sketched with a thinner marker, making him even more stick-like, and _TYLE__Я_ was a small boy crying and holding a stuffed animal, though Mercedes couldn't tell what kind of animal it was. _ELEANO__Я_was the only girl, and she had been drawn with a very pronounced frown and her face colored in red. _C__Я__AIG_ was a bald man with a swollen belly, a beer bottle in his hand – his face was colored red too. The only thing really distinguishing the figure labeled _KU__Я__T_ from the rest was the bright purple scarf around his neck.

"Weird, right?" Puck said, startling Mercedes back into the present. She'd almost forgotten where she was.

She gave a shaky nod in reply, warily studying Kurt. Or Zack. Or whoever it was. God, _how_ could this have gotten so screwed up in just a matter of hours?

"How long has Zack… been out?" Mercedes asked, stumbling a little over her words.

"About the last hour," Puck shrugged. "When I got here it was Truman. Now _that_ was funny to watch."

Mercedes quirked an eyebrow, not sure she wanted to know the details. "Why?" she asked in spite of herself.

"Cause he kept trying to get Finn to let him blast Lady Gaga in the living room, and he was _hitting on me_," Puck snorted, trying not to laugh.

"I don't think this is particularly funny," she said slowly.

"Well, that part was."

"No," she snapped. "He's sick. I don't get how you can see anything funny in that."

Puck sighed. "Mercedes, I was just as freaked as you were when Kurt was screaming his head off and trying to attack Finn or whatever, but not all of Kurt's… people… are like that, okay?"

"What, an hour with him – them – _him_ and you're already the expert?"

Puck was about to retort, but Kurt (Zack?) suddenly leapt up from the floor. "Show's over!" he announced. He shut the TV off and turned to Puck with a huge grin lighting up his face. "Isn't that the awesomest cartoon ever?" he said.

"Pretty much," Puck agreed.

Kurt's eyes turned to Mercedes, seeming to notice her for the first time. He grinned again. "Hi! What's your name?"

"M-Mercedes," she stammered, stunned by the complete lack of recognition.

"I know you – you're Kurt's best friend!" he said, obviously pleased that he possessed this bit of information.

"Hey Zack," Puck cut in. "How old are you?"

"I'm four," answered Kurt proudly, holding up four fingers. "I'm hungry, what's for lunch?" He turned and ran, almost skipping, to the kitchen.

Mercedes stared after him.

"He's kinda ADD," said Puck.

"So I noticed." She took a deep breath, trying to steady her quickened heartbeat. "What the hell are we supposed to do now?"

"Well, right now, I smell grilled cheese, so I'm gonna go grab one." Puck sprang to his feet and followed Kurt with almost the same level of excitement.

Mercedes leaned forward and rested her head in her hands, feeling a boulder inching painfully upwards through her esophagus. Her brain couldn't absorb all of this – it was coming at her too fast.

"You okay?"

She looked up as Finn sank onto the couch next to her, his hands and wrists neatly bandaged Rachel Berry-style. "No," she said. "I don't get this – _any_ of this."

Finn shrugged. "Neither do we. Neither does Kurt."

"How are you all so…_casual_ about it?"

"We're not," Finn replied simply. "Look, Rachel acts like she's fine whenever she's freaked out, and so does Puck. But neither of them – especially Puck – would be here if they weren't worried."

She sighed. "Is it possible for him to be fixed?"

Finn let out a long breath, chewing on the inside of his lip in thought. "It's possible. But it's not probable."

Mercedes shook her head, struggling to wrap her head around the entire situation. "H-how does it work? I mean, how do you tell who's going to come out? And when they come out?"

"You don't," said Finn solemnly. "It's not a math problem. Sometimes he'll react one way and sometimes he'll react another." He sighed again. "Mercedes… he's not coming back to school."

"I know," she said absentmindedly, still trying to fight the massive lump in her throat.

"No, I mean… ever."

Her gaze snapped up.

Finn rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Burt's at the school right now talking with Principal Figgins, but there's no point in it because no matter what Burt says, they can't let Kurt back in the school."

"But…that means no degree, no Glee, no NYADA—!"

"It's not just about what Kurt needs any more," Finn interrupted. "He had a serious fit on campus, during school hours. That was _dangerous_. And it wasn't something anyone could control."


	12. Short Circuit

_Short-Circuit_

Mercedes and Finn eventually rejoined the others in the kitchen, where Kurt was cheerily working his way through a grilled cheese sandwich. "I've never seen him enjoy something so fattening," commented Rachel, making Puck snort.

"Finn, can we go to the park later?" Kurt asked, a few breadcrumbs stuck to his cheeks.

"Maybe," Finn answered. "If you're still around."

"I hope I am. I want to go to the playground."

"It's the middle of January, honey," Carole reminded him. "The playground's buried in snow."

"Oh…" Kurt looked crestfallen.

"It's fine, Zack, we can still go," promised Finn. "We'll build a snowman or something."

Kurt brightened again. "Okay!"

A few moments later, Kurt suddenly spit a mouthful of his sandwich onto his plate, eyeing the rest of his sandwich with disgust. Finn glanced over with a frown. "You okay, Zack?"

Kurt dropped the sandwich onto the plate next to the ball of half-chewed bread and cheese. "It's Robbie," he snapped, his voice turned low and graveled. Without waiting for any further conversation, Kurt stood and strode out of the room with his shoulders slumped.

Finn sighed. "I'll go," he said, standing up and following Robbie down the hall, leaving Puck and the girls confused and a little afraid.

Ever since they'd gotten him home, Kurt had been switching every forty minutes or so, so tense and anxious that he couldn't hold on to any one personality for very long. Even Truman, whom Finn had never met before, had emerged with his spiked-up hair and his rapid speech before giving way to Zack's giggles and wide smiles. But, while Puck had been more than amused by Truman and Zack, Finn knew that inside Kurt's head there was currently a war going on as his brain struggled to cope with the massive stress of the episode earlier that morning. And to make matters worse, Finn was pretty sure that even though he was not in control, Kurt _knew_ that his life had changed drastically in the last few hours, which only served to make him more upset and in turn triggered rapid switches.

Finn opened the bathroom door just as Kurt was sticking his fingers down his throat. He winced as Kurt's torso spasmed and he emptied his stomach into the toilet, indifferently pulling the flush handle and moving over to the sink to brush his teeth. Finn leaned against the doorframe until Kurt snappishly asked him what he was looking at.

"Do you really hate yourself that much?" Finn asked, crossing his arms.

"How do you figure?"

"Rob, shoving your fingers down your throat doesn't exactly scream self-esteem."

Kurt stuck his toothbrush into his mouth, speaking through a mouthful of toothpaste. "Yeah, pudge-boy, and you lift weights just because it's fun."

"I lift weights to be healthy. Different ballpark, dude."

"Oh, please." Kurt spat the toothpaste into the sink and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "You do all your shit so you can look like the pucker-faced assholes on the billboards, and so do I. Don't talk down to me, because those sloppy joes and Doritos and McDonald's meals that you suck down every day aren't exactly helping you."

"It's not even your body."

Kurt leaned against the sink, his eyes narrowing. "I have as much a right to this body as Kurt does."

"No, you don't. Especially when you do this crap to it."

"You ever really think about this?" Kurt asked, a slight tone of accusation seeping through his words.

Finn frowned, caught slightly off-guard. "…About what?"

"You say I don't have a right to this body. Well, that would make me a part of Kurt's head and nothing more than that," Kurt continued impassively. "If that's all I am, then _my_ self-esteem is actually Kurt's."

Finn gritted his teeth. "Kurt's more than you. He's better."

"So you admit we're separate people?"

"You're not Kurt."

"Okay, then it's as much my body as his and I can do what I want with it when I'm in control." Kurt straightened again, running a hand through his hair. "Normal people get to wonder why they exist, and that's great and all. But us? We get to wonder _if_ we exist." He brushed past Finn, growling under his breath as he went, "Now how's that for a damaging self-image?"

* * *

><p>After a polite nudge from Carole, Puck and the girls all left before Kurt could switch again. Characteristic of Robbie, Kurt refused to say goodbye beyond a low grunt of acknowledgment as the three of them filed out the door.<p>

"When's Burt coming back?" asked Finn while Carole picked up the dishes from the table. Kurt had sullenly retreated to his bedroom, and would probably stay there until Robbie checked out.

"As soon as he's done talking with Figgins," answered Carole. "This kind of thing can take a while. Be patient." She gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

Finn sighed and cleared his plate, then went to the living room with the intent of cleaning up the arts-and-crafts disaster that covered the coffee table. After piling all of Zack's drawings into one stack and tossing Puck's doodles into the trash, he pulled out the sheet of paper where he'd asked Kurt to draw all of his alters, each of them labeled with the corresponding name in Zack's handwriting (if it could be called that – he was _four_, after all). He was about to place the drawing on the top of the stack to put into a folder in Kurt's closet along with all of Zack's other drawings from the last several years, but then a thought occurred to him. Leaving the rest of the stack on the coffee table, he climbed the stairs to the second floor with the paper in his hand.

He knocked on Kurt's door before sticking his head in. "Hey, Robbie, I need to talk to you about something."

Kurt looked up from where he was reclined on his bed with his nose buried in a Holly Black novel. "What?"

Finn came around the side of the bed and plopped down on the mattress by Kurt's feet. "Zack drew this earlier," he said, handing it over.

Kurt gave it a quick glance before returning it. "If you're looking for artistic criticism, there's not much to give to a preschooler."

"You all know about each other, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, so… is that everyone?"

Kurt frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"In the drawing," Finn clarified. "Is that all of you?"

There was a long pause in which Kurt stared at Finn, evaluating. "Where is this going, Finn?" he asked gruffly.

"This morning, after Eleanor left, someone else came out. Someone I'd never met—"

"You never met Truman before today either."

"—_or_ heard of," Finn finished.

The muscles beneath Kurt's eyes tightened. "You know all of us," he said.

Finn bit the inside of his cheek for a moment. "…I don't buy that."

The book in Kurt's lap snapped shut loudly. "Why the _fuck_ would I hide another personality?" he asked, a little too angrily.

Finn didn't move. "I think you're scared of him."

"Of _who_?"

"Whoever this other personality is."

"There _is_ no other personality," Kurt snarled through clenched teeth, his fists curling beside him. "It's _just us_. What, is seven for the price of one not enough for you?" He threw the book onto the floor and stood up, storming out of the room and slamming the door shut behind him with enough force to rattle the furniture.

* * *

><p>Dr. Goldberg's office had been fully booked that afternoon, but Carole had managed to schedule a last-minute appointment for Kurt the next day around noon. Kurt himself still had not been seen since the previous morning before his public episode, and had repeatedly cycled through every personality except his own. Burt (and Finn, who had insisted on staying awake) had been up for the entire night making sure that Eleanor, Craig, and Robbie, when they were awake, didn't do anything to harm themselves or Kurt.<p>

Burt yawned as the four of them sat in the waiting room of the Goldberg-Lynne Private Practice, waiting for the aging receptionist with grey hair horribly disguised as pinkish red to allow them into Dr. Goldberg's private office. Carole sipped a cup of water from the cooler and held Kurt's hand as he squirmed in his seat.

"Calm down, honey," she soothed, squeezing his hand.

"Am I gonna get shots?" asked Zack's voice.

"No, you know that Dr. Goldberg isn't that kind of doctor."

Finn jiggled his leg and tried hard not to pay attention to the strange looks Kurt was receiving from the small handful of other patients scattered around the room. "Zack, do you want to play with the bead coaster?" he suggested, gesturing to the short table mounted with wooden beads threaded onto colored wires.

Kurt relocated to the bead coaster, sitting on the floor with his legs crossed. Finn watched him as he played, sending the beads back and forth, and for the millionth time wondered why the _hell_ someone like Kurt had to be broken this way.

"Kurt Hummel?" called the receptionist, cutting through Finn's train of thought.

Burt and Carole stood up. "Come on, Zack," called Burt.

"Is Finn coming?"

"No, Finn's gotta stay here. But he'll be here when you get out."

Kurt looked disappointed, but followed Burt anyhow.

The inside of Dr. Goldberg's office was never quite at the right temperature – today it was a little too warm for Burt's taste. The walls were painted shamrock green and decorated with more than a few paintings of sea birds. Dr. Goldberg was sitting behind his desk, but stood and shook Burt's hand as they walked in. "Good to see you, Mr. Hummel," he said with a professional smile. "Or should I call you Senator now? I've been following your campaign on the news."

"Uh, Representative, actually," Burt corrected. "But Mister's fine by me."

"Oh, right, my mistake." Dr. Goldberg smiled again. He was just shy of six feet, bald only on the top of his head and with a thick beard that he kept neatly trimmed around his mole-ish features. His close-set eyes turned to Kurt, who was hovering shyly behind Burt. "So, who are we dealing with today?"

Burt glanced down at his son. "Well, it's Zack right now. We haven't seen Kurt since early yesterday morning."

Dr. Goldberg blew air out his nostrils. "Sounds serious." He retrieved his notepad from the top of his desk. "Why don't we all have a seat and then either you or Zack can tell me what happened?"

Kurt immediately flopped onto the couch, pulling his legs up underneath him. Burt pulled Raleigh out of his pocket, setting it on the small table next to the armchair situated off to the side for the occasional parent. "I brought Tyler's stuffed elephant, just in case we see him," he said as he sank into the chair.

"Excellent. Good thinking." Dr. Goldberg adjusted his tie as he sat in his personal, well-worn chair, draping one leg over the other and propped his notebook against his knee. "Now, Zack" he started. "Before I talk to Burt, I'd like to ask you if you remember anything about yesterday morning at school. Were you there?"

"No," Kurt said softly, chewing on his thumbnail and looking intently at his shoes. "But I know something bad happened."

"What sort of thing?"

"Eleanor came out."

"Okay," Dr. Goldberg nodded, scribbling on his notepad. "Good. Do you know what she did, if anything?"

Kurt shook his head wordlessly.

"All right, that's fine. Thank you." The doctor turned his attention to Burt. "Now, Mr. Hummel, if you could summarize."

Burt took a deep breath. "Well, first off, you gotta know that there are some really bad characters at McKinley," he began, adjusting his cap on his head. "There are people there who don't like Kurt or his group friends, and they'll cross a lot of boundaries in order to put them down."

"…Okay," Dr. Goldberg said.

"A few of the students there run a gossip site, and, I dunno how, but they found out about Kurt's… illness, and they posted it online for the whole school to see."

"…And the stress of that exposure was what triggered Eleanor?"

Burt nodded. "Yeah. Kurt, well… he's a private kid. You know, he'll share things with people who are important to him, but he doesn't like sharing things with the whole world. And that's without all the other crap going on in his head."

"Well, Kurt's forced twenty-four-seven to share his body – he's entitled to a little social privacy if you ask me," Dr. Goldberg agreed. "How often has he been switching since then?"

The next ten minutes were spent with Dr. Goldberg asking a long series of detailed questions about what had taken place during the previous thirty-six hours, and scribbling down so many notes that he had to turn the page three times.

"…Finn practically carried Kurt in the house 'cause Kurt wouldn't walk on his own—"

Dr. Goldberg frowned and interrupted. "He _wouldn't _walk? Or couldn't?"

"I have no idea," Burt answered. "None of us have ever seen him like that. He barely spoke, barely moved…" He let out a shuddering breath, rubbing a hand over his face and looking up at the ceiling. "He was just… dead. Anyways, we put him in his bedroom and, eventually, he switched to Tyler and came downstairs on his own."

Chewing on the inside of his cheek for a moment in thought, Burt had to steel himself before he was able to ask, "You think we're dealing with a new alter?"

"New to Kurt or new to you?"

"…Both?"

Dr. Goldberg shook his head. "Personalities don't develop in the space of a few minutes. They don't just come into being. In that sense, they're people in their own right – put together piece by piece." He scratched at his beard, glancing at Kurt, who was clearly growing bored very quickly. "It's far more likely that what you were seeing is another personality who has simply never_needed_ to come out before."

"So, he's always had eight?"

"Probably."

"Could there be more?"

"Possibly."

"Is there anything you can say that's beyond a maybe?"

"No."

Burt huffed, exhausted. "Doc, you diagnosed Kurt when he was eleven. How the hell is it possible that this other alter hasn't shown himself during the seven years since then? Not to mention the three years between that and the accident. Ten years in all, and this person hasn't shown up 'til now?"

"Well, for all you know, the new guy could have shown up when you weren't around," Dr. Goldberg answered. "I won't be able to give you any solid theories until I talk to him."

Burt blinked. "Um… to who?"

"To the new guy."


	13. Security Breach

_Security Breach_

As a father, Burt had dealt with a lot of things. Before Linda died, he'd dealt with his share of dirty diapers and nights spent awake while Kurt cried (he'd always been a lively kid, from his first breath onwards). From the moment Burt had picked a catatonic eight-year-old up from the police precinct that had rescued him from the twisted scrap metal that had used to be their car, Kurt was different. The first year, he had only seemed distant and Burt had brushed it off as grief – the kid had lost his mom, after all. He tried comforting Kurt, tried getting him out of the house and integrated with other kids… Nothing seemed to work, but Burt had expected it to heal with time.

The second year after Linda's death was worse. Kurt was still distant, but he was growing more and more inconsistent. One day he'd be clinging to Burt's side at all times, then suddenly Kurt would push him away or threaten to hit him. Burt didn't understand it, and he figured it was probably time to try the counseling road. The first psychologist they tried was a middle-aged doll-faced woman named Kathleen Westfield and she determined that Kurt was bipolar. He was put on medication and taken off, multiple times for the next two years. Burt argued with Dr. Westfield endlessly, saying that even though he didn't have a degree, he knew his son a hell of a lot better than she did, and he would know if the kid was mentally unstable.

Just after Kurt turned eleven was when Burt finally cut the cord with Dr. Westfield and sought a second opinion with Dr. Goldberg. Kurt had only worsened over the course of two years, and it had taken Goldberg only a month to figure out that it was more than a disrupted polarity, though the official diagnosis was still up in the air. Three days before Christmas, however, Burt had walked into the house to find Kurt eating peanut butter out of a jar and insisting that his name was Tyler, and all the terrifying puzzle pieces snapped into place.

Still… _all_ of that, all the years of worry and sickening heartache that Burt and Kurt (and later Carole and Finn) had gone through together… it all paled in comparison to what he had seen yesterday. He had watched Kurt – smart, witty, sarcastic, flamboyant, _alive_ Kurt – stare into space with such a strange and even mix of awareness and emptiness. It was by far the most frightening thing Burt had ever experienced.

And he did _not_ want to see it again.

"No," he said.

"No?"

"I don't want you bringing out this one."

Dr. Goldberg sighed, lacing his hands together. "Mr. Hummel, I think it's a risk worth taking."

Burt gritted his teeth. "Only if Kurt himself says it's okay. It's his head and he's not a minor, it's up to him."

"Alright." Dr. Goldberg turned his attention to Kurt, who was almost falling asleep from boredom. "Zack, look at me."

Kurt's eyes snapped open and he yawned. "Huh?"

"I know you'd like to stick around for a while, but right now I really have to talk to Kurt. You think you could bring him out for me?"

Kurt bit his lip. "Kurt's not really happy right now – I don't think he wants to come out."

"It's very important."

Burt watched as Zack considered whether or not to allow Kurt back at the wheel. "Okay," he said. "But you need to call him."

It was another twenty minutes before Kurt, at long last, finally reappeared after a lot of coaxing from both Burt and Dr. Goldberg, and Burt let out a heavy breath of relief when he saw his son was back.

Kurt swallowed. "How long was I out?" he asked hoarsely. Burt could hear that he was fighting tears, and he didn't blame him.

"More than a day," Burt replied solemnly.

"Wh-who took over?" Kurt's eyes had gone glassy – for him, the humiliation of being publicly proven insane had only happened a few minutes ago, and the pain was still unbelievably sharp.

"Everyone."

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut, tears spilling over.

"Kurt," Dr. Goldberg prodded. "There's a… pretty big chance that you have an seventh alter. One of whom you were not previously aware."

"…What?"

Burt's heart nearly broke at the _terror_ on Kurt's face, but he managed to stay silent as Dr. Goldberg continued.

"Your father has related to me that at one point during your episode, you switched from Eleanor to a personality that they had never seen before. Do you know anything about this?"

Kurt's eyes were wide, his body tense. "I – I don't—"

"It's all right if you don't."

Kurt didn't speak for a minute, chewing on his cuticle. He'd dropped that habit by age twelve, but on very rare occasions Burt would still catch him with a fingernail between his teeth.

"I'd like to speak with the new alter," said Dr. Goldberg, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"How do you intend to do that?" Kurt frowned.

"He – or she – can be brought out through hypnosis."

"Hypnosis," Kurt echoed disbelievingly.

"But, you would have to fully agree to it."

Kurt tilted his head, his expression tired. "Look at me. I can't fully agree to anything."

Dr. Goldberg chuckled dryly. "I was referring to your core personality."

Sighing, Kurt ran a shaky hand over his face. He swallowed.

"Kurt, you don't need to do it if you don't want to," Burt said. "There are always other ways."

"No," Kurt breathed. "I want to know who this person is. I need to know about all of them or I'll lose my mind." His voice cracked. "But I want Finn with me. Is he here?"

"Um, yes," Dr. Goldberg frowned. "But why?"

"He keeps me grounded."

"That's not the goal of hypnosis."

"I want him with me," Kurt insisted, his eyes hardening.

Dr. Goldberg was thankfully able to sense that Kurt refused to take no for an answer, and he stood and leaned out of the door to call Finn into the office. Finn tentatively entered and sat down on the couch, looking slightly bewildered – he'd never been allowed to be present for Kurt's therapy sessions before. "Hey, Kurt," he said, instantly recognizing his stepbrother and clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "I missed you, buddy."

"He'll only be here for a couple more minutes, and that's where you come in," said Dr. Goldberg.

"Me? What… what am I supposed to do?" Finn glanced at Burt in confusion.

"What you always do," replied Burt.

Finn nodded, immediately understanding. It never ceased to amaze Burt just how much Kurt and Finn had bonded since resolving their original dispute over living together, and stranger and more extraordinary still was the fact that that connection had seemed only to grow stronger after Finn learned about Kurt's illness. Burt knew that Finn shouldn't have found out the way he did (was it only a year and a half ago?), but he was so grateful that Finn had somehow managed to be okay with it.

Dr. Goldberg set his notepad aside. "Okay. Let's get started."

* * *

><p>Outside in the waiting room, Carole remained quietly reading the latest copy of <em>Reader's Digest<em> and listening to the receptionist's keyboard rapidly clacking. She was halfway through reading an interview with George Clooney when her purse buzzed on the chair beside her. She dug through it and pulled out Kurt's cell phone, which she always carried with her when Kurt was not in control, just in case he came back. She bit her lip when she saw the caller ID, not sure how big of a boundary she'd cross if she answered. After receiving a dirty look from the receptionist when the ringtone cut through the near-silence, she made a quick decision and grabbed her purse, disappearing into the hallway outside.

"Hello, Blaine," she said, leaning against the wall by the elevator.

"_O-Oh, hi, Mrs. Hudson…_" he stammered. "_Sorry, I… was hoping to talk to Kurt._"

She sighed. "Kurt can't talk right now, he's not here."

"_Okay, do you know when he'll be back?_"

"No, I meant… he's not _here_."

There was a long beat. "_…Oh._"

"Can I take a message?" Carole offered.

"_N-no, that's okay, I'll talk to him later._"

When Blaine didn't hang up like she expected, Carole decided to venture a step further. "Blaine, are you doing all right? Finn told me that you've been having some problems coming to terms with all of this."

Blaine was understandably offset by Carole's question. Adults didn't usually delve into teenage relationships, or at least not with their stepson's boyfriend. That was supposed to be for the boyfriend's parents to take on, after all, but Carole had heard on more than one occasion that Blaine's house was not exactly feeling-friendly.

"_…I'm okay_," he replied after a few moments of hesitation.

"This might sound a little weird coming from Kurt's stepmom, so feel free to say no, but… do you need someone to talk to?"

There was yet another pause, even longer than before. Eventually, Blaine's response came down the line. "_Yeah. I really do._"

Carole was surprised that she felt relieved that Blaine had accepted. "Okay," she said. "How about I meet you at the Lima Bean around three this afternoon?"

"_That's fine. I… guess I'll see you then._"

Carole ended the call and headed back to the waiting room, wondering what sort of line she'd just crossed and if it mattered.

* * *

><p>Getting Kurt to relax had proven to be the easiest part of the hypnosis, which was saying something. Burt watched, his blood roaring in his ears, as Kurt lay on the couch with Finn sitting on the floor next to him (there wasn't another chair). Kurt almost looked like he was sound asleep aside from the irregular fluttering of his eyelids – they alternately exposed the undersides of his rolled-back eyes or the blue-green irises rapidly moving back and forth. There was a <em>hurricane <em>of activity taking place inside the walls of Kurt's skull.

Burt felt a strong urge to pace around the room as Dr. Goldberg spoke slowly to Kurt, but he and Finn had both been instructed to make absolutely no noise, so he clenched his jaw and stayed where he was.

"…And remember, no matter what you're doing or where you are, my voice is your lifeline…" Dr. Goldberg was reciting softly, sounding like a hack straight off a textbook page. "You are safe. Now, open your eyes, and tell me where you are."

Kurt's eyelids slid all the way open, his eyes still whipping back and forth but seeming not to register any of his surroundings. "I don't see anything…" he said, his voice disturbingly weak. "It's just black."

"Can you tell me who you are now?"

Kurt's head twitched to the side, his eyes rolling back for a moment.

"Listen to my voice, Kurt… Tell me what you're feeling."

"_Angry_," Kurt hissed, his teeth clicking. Burt swallowed – that was Eleanor's voice.

"Who are you right now?"

He twitched again, his legs curling up beneath him. Dr. Goldberg nodded at Finn, who grabbed Kurt's hand. Kurt didn't notice.

"Who are you now?" Dr. Goldberg repeated, a little more forcefully.

"_Everyone_."

Burt flinched. The voice that had come out of Kurt's mouth was so flat and low and unearthly that Burt had wondered for a moment if he was hearing things.

"Who is 'everyone'?"

"_We're all here._"

"How many of you are there?"

Kurt's back arched, his body going rigid.

"Who is the seventh alter?"

A growl worked its way out of Kurt's lungs. "_Can't tell._" His chest heaved, his spine collapsing for a second before arching up again. Finn squeezed his hand.

"You don't know or you can't tell me?"

Kurt's only response was his eyes rolling back in their sockets, his torso curling like an ant under a magnifying glass. Burt ground his teeth, trying very hard not to tell Dr. Goldberg to wake Kurt up. He didn't think Kurt's body could handle the strain of being seven (or eight) people at the same time, and was afraid his heart would burst or he would start bleeding out of his ears like he was in some effects-laden horror flick.

"Focus on my voice, Kurt," Dr. Goldberg reminded him.

Kurt arm suddenly lashed out and struck the wall, though Burt wasn't sure if it was the result of rage or a muscle spasm.

"What are you feeling?"

A strange whine squeezed out of Kurt's throat and his face contorted like he was about to cry.

"Where are you right now?"

"_Nowhere._"

"Can you take me back to the car accident?"

Burt's head snapped up in alarm. Dr. Goldberg hadn't said anything about forcing Kurt to relive the crash.

Kurt's breath quickened, his eyes reeling. His entire body was shaking as he ground his teeth.

And then, in the blink of an eye, he stopped moving. Every muscle went slack.

Burt swallowed audibly, having seen this only once before.

"Who are you right now?"

"No one."

Finn blanched, looking over his shoulder at Burt as he recognized the voice.

"What is your name?" Dr. Goldberg pushed.

Kurt stared at him. The doctor repeated his question three times before he received an answer.

"Schism."

Dr. Goldberg took this in stride, which made Burt's head spin. "What part do you play?"

There was no answer.

"Schism, can you tell me what you're feeling now?"

Kurt's face remained flat as he opened his mouth and uttered one of the most frightening sentences Burt had ever heard.

"I don't feel much of anything."


	14. Detour

_Detour  
><em>

"I'm afraid that… what we're dealing with here is a primitive."

There was a long pause in which the very air felt compressed. Burt, Finn, and Kurt were all seated on the couch while Carole occupied the extra armchair, having been called in from the waiting room for a quick conference.

"What does that mean?" Finn asked.

Dr. Goldberg's beard twitched. "A primitive is an alter that displays only the most basic emotions, if any at all, and their language skills are minimal. Most of the time they're animalistic—"

Kurt flinched at this, swallowing as he studied the carpet.

"—but occasionally a robotic primitive will form instead, and I think that's what Schism is."

"Is that a bad or good thing?" Burt wanted to know.

"Depends on the situation. My guess would be that the role Schism plays in Kurt's head is to block the neural pathways to the emotional centers of his brain if they become too overstimulated."

Kurt swallowed again, his eyes going glassy, but he said nothing.

"Can you say that in English?" asked Burt.

Dr. Goldberg sighed, crossing one leg over the other. "In layman's terms, if Kurt becomes so emotional that his brain can't process it, Schism will emerge so that he doesn't have to."

"But… why? I mean, he's been real upset before, but this alter hasn't come out 'til now."

The doctor shook his head. "I'd be willing to bet that he's emerged more often than you realize." He pursed his mouth in thought, his beard twitching. "During the hypnosis, once Schism left again, Eleanor said that Schism's been present forever. Based on that statement, I'd expect that Schism was in fact the first alter to develop. He most likely appeared during the first few days after the accident."

Burt frowned. "You said just a little while ago that alters took a long time to develop."

"If the personality is extensive and detailed, yes. Unemotional alters are a bit of a different story." Dr. Goldberg shifted in his chair, scratching thoughtfully at his beard. "What we know about Schism so far is very little, because he does very little. The only thing he really seems to draw on is Kurt's language abilities, and he uses language minimally at best. I'm not sure I'd go so far as to even call Schism a personality."

"Then what is he?" Finn interjected, completely confused.

"A state of being?" Goldberg shrugged.

"It's not enlightenment, Dr. Goldberg," Kurt said, speaking up for the first time. "I'm not _conscious_ when S-Schism is awake." He tripped slightly over the name, still unused to it.

"The fact remains that Schism doesn't have many characteristics other than a _lack_ of characteristics," Dr. Goldberg replied evenly. He glanced at the clock and stood to go to his desk. "Well, I'm afraid that our time is up for today. Roseanne can give you the receipt at the front desk, and let me book you for next Tuesday, same time."

"Well, wait a minute," Burt protested. "What are we supposed to do now?"

Dr. Goldberg looked up from his schedule with a frown. "With what?"

"Kurt's not allowed back to school, _everyone_ knows about his condition, and all you've said is that this new alter is a some kind of robot."

"What have I told you all along, Mr. Hummel? This is not an overnight process."

"That still doesn't give us anything," Burt retorted dryly.

"Take a week off," Dr. Goldberg said, scribbling into his appointment book. "Just relax, de-stress, get used to the idea of having Schism around even if he's rarely in control. We'll talk in further detail next week about strategies for dealing with it."

Kurt exhaled heavily, standing up and stiffly walking out of the room with his arms crossed. After a moment of hesitation, his family followed.

* * *

><p>Kurt didn't stick around for very long after his therapy appointment had ended. Robbie emerged before they even got home, and he immediately disappeared into his room as soon as they walked into the house. A few minutes later, punk rock blasted through the ceiling, rattling the light fixtures and acting as a clear <em>Do Not Disturb Or I Will Fucking Snap<em> sign.

Carole sighed and picked up Kurt's jacket from where he'd tossed it on the floor, then told Finn she had some errands to run and returned to the car, leaving him to scrap together lunch for himself. Finn managed to heat up some tomato soup, then went upstairs to knock on Kurt's door.

"Robbie?" he called, yelling to be heard over _Ha Ha You're Dead_ (a song that was usually played repeatedly whenever Robbie was around and feeling more irritable than usual). "Robbie! Open the door!" He banged on the door again until Kurt unlocked it.

"What do you want?" Kurt shouted, leaving the stereo at its maximum volume as a blunt point of showing that this conversation wasn't worth his time.

"Can you at least turn that down?"

Kurt mockingly put a finger behind his ear. "What? I can't hear you!"

Finn rolled his eyes, flapping a hand at him. "Screw this. There's soup in the kitchen if it's possible for you to be hungry." He turned around and stomped downstairs to have lunch, retrieving his earplugs from the bathroom as he went.

Half an hour later, Finn was sitting at the kitchen island, skimming over a _Men's Health_ issue and draining the last of his soup from the bowl. Kurt strode into the kitchen, shirtless and wearing only a pair of torn jeans, and began to rummage through the fridge.

Finn took out his earplugs, grateful for the lack of pumping music from upstairs. "Robbie gone?"

"Yep," said Kurt, tossing a banana into the blender along with some protein powder from the cupboard. He pulled a hand through his hair, making it spike up. "Kicked that sucker out. _Man_, he's depressing – I don't know how you can fucking stand it."

Finn chuckled. "Me? You're the one who's got to room with him." He tapped his temple for emphasis as he dropped his bowl into the sink. "Or is it like a dorm and you all get your own room?"

Kurt cracked a smug grin. "Yeah, and Kurt's the den mother," he snorted. "But I hate that the others get more screen-time than me. I need room to stretch. Gotta pump my guns!" He curled an arm to show off his bicep. "Also, you've _got_ to get Kurt's ass to the gym at some point, dude, 'cause I _cannot_ keep showing up to find he's out of shape. He gets more muscles and I guarantee you, he'll be getting a lot more dick than he does now."

"First of all, _ew_, that's my brother and I don't want to think about that," said Finn. "And second, I don't think Kurt really appreciated you hitting on Puck yesterday."

"Why, Kurt's claimed that territory?" Kurt asked through a massive bite of an apple he'd yanked from the fruit basket.

"_No_. Puck's not gay."

Kurt hoisted himself up to sit on the counter. "Neither am I."

"Yeah, you'll just do it with anything that moves."

Kurt shrugged, as if to say _well, you have a point._ "Well, you better let Puck or Buck or Fuck or whatever his name is know that a mohawk – or whatever the fuck he's got on top of his head for hair – _screams_ bisexuality."

"I'll pass it on," Finn laughed. "Hey, Truman, can I ask you something?"

"Yeah, sure, whatevs," Kurt said after a gulp of his protein shake.

Finn's eyebrows shot up. "Did you really just say 'whatevs'?" He shook his head. "You know what, never mind. What do you know about Schism?"

"What about him?"

"Oh, so you're not pretending he doesn't exist?"

Kurt shrugged. "Why would I? He's one of us."

"I dunno, when I asked Robbie about it, he wouldn't tell me and he got super angry."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "That's Robbie you're talking about, man. You know, the fucking High King of Sullentown? I swear, that kid is straight out of that shitty vampire book Kurt's so obsessed with."

Finn laughed again. "Don't let Robbie hear that."

"Ah, he probably already did. Not like I give a flying fuck what Stick-Boy thinks, anyways."

"Fair enough," Finn said. "So…you still didn't answer my question."

"'Bout what?"

"About Schism."

"Oh, right." Kurt took another swallow of his protein shake. "Well, he's pretty much a robot. Not much else to know other than he's been here longer than anyone else."

"Why doesn't he come out more often?"

Kurt shrugged. "Doesn't need to. Usually, most of us can handle whatever shit Kurt gets himself into. Well, except Eleanor and Zack… 'Cause Zack's a fucking toddler and Eleanor's fucking… Eleanor. You know how it is."

"Yeah."

"And that's not to mention the fact that none of us like it when Schism's out."

Finn frowned. "Why's that?"

"He doesn't feel _anything_, man. You have any idea what that's like? It _sucks_."

Finn considered this for a moment, then nodded. "I guess it would."

Kurt glanced down at his bare torso. "_Fuck_, Kurt's pale." He sighed. "Let's go to a party tonight."

"Where?"

"Fuck, I don't know! Scandals would work. Probably the only place in Hicksville that _has_ a decent party. Plus, if I fuck any girls, Kurt's gonna get _super_ pissed."

"He'd have a right to be, dude," Finn grinned.

Kurt rolled his eyes and nimbly jumped off the counter. "Please, sex is sex," he said. "Doesn't matter who it's with, and it definitely doesn't matter whether you're forking the front door or the back."

Finn made a face. "Wow, I _really_ didn't want that picture in my head."

Kurt threw up his hands. "Whatever. If it means keeping Kurt from giving me a fucking headache, I'm willing to swear allegiance to the dick." He mock-saluted, then turned and headed back towards the hallway.

"Put a shirt on!" Finn called after him.

Kurt threw his middle finger over his shoulder.

* * *

><p>Carole found Blaine sitting in the far corner of the Lima Bean, almost twenty minutes earlier than when they'd agreed to meet, with a medium drip sitting untouched on the table in front of him.<p>

"Hello," was Carole's simple greeting.

He looked up. "Oh, hi." He shifted nervously as Carole took her seat across from him.

"So," she said, wrapping her hands around her warm latte. "How are you?"

Blaine exhaled heavily, looking out the window. Carole realized she'd never seen him slouch before. "I don't know," he said.

"How much do your parents know about what's going on?"

Blaine chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Nothing."

Carole's heart skipped and her eyebrows shot up. "Nothing? You haven't told them?"

"My mom tells my dad everything, and if my dad knew it'd just be 'I told you so' and 'we always knew the homo was crazy'," he said dryly. "Wouldn't help anything."

"I'm sorry, honey," she said softly.

He shrugged, bringing his gaze back to the table. "I'm used to it."

"Just for context, um… how many of Kurt's alters have you met?"

Blaine swallowed, paling slightly. "Uh, just… Eleanor, Tyler, and Robbie." He rubbed a hand over his face. "How many others does he have again?"

Carole bit her lip. "Well, um… he's got seven total."

Blaine frowned. "Wait… wasn't it six?"

"There's a new one."

Blaine looked like he was about to vomit, and he pushed his coffee away from him. He rested his head in his hands.

"Blaine, look…" Carole started. "You and Kurt are not married. Even if you love each other, you're not committed. You didn't sign any contract to keep you with him. If you feel like you need to leave, you have every right to."

"B-but Kurt…"

"Kurt might not understand right away, but it doesn't matter. _You_ have the right to leave or stay or do whatever you want to do," Carole insisted. "We all want you to stay – you keep Kurt grounded, you help him feel better about his life, and a hundred other things. But it really doesn't matter at all what we feel."


	15. Arsenic And Kite Flying

_Arsenic And Kite-Flying  
><em>

Kurt was _sleepy_. Curled up on the couch underneath his favorite blanket as _The Lion King_ drew to a close on the TV in front of him, he yawned and asked to go to bed. It barely occurred to him that he was on the couch in his old house, from before his dad was remarried.

"_Sure thing, bud,_" said a man's voice from behind him. "_Have this first._" A hand appeared in Kurt's field of vision, holding a small white pill.

"Whazzat?" Kurt asked, already half asleep.

"_It's a vitamin, kiddo. Your dad asked me to give it to you before you went to bed._"

"Do I chew it?"

"_No, just swallow._"

Kurt reached out and took the pill, popping it into his mouth and swallowing it. He made a face. "Yuck."

"_I know, it's kinda gross_," said the voice. "_Come on, it's time for bed._"

Kurt yawned again, feeling even sleepier than before. "Can I just sleep here? I'm _tired_."

A chuckle, and then, "_Sure. I'll bring you upstairs later._"

Kurt curled up tighter, feeling the edges of his vision go dark. "Good night, Franklin," he slurred.

"_Night, bud._"

Abruptly, Kurt realized he was looking at his bedroom ceiling. In his _new_ house. He sat up, looking around in slight confusion with the smell of his old house still in his mind. The clock on his nightstand glowed _2:47 A.M_. and he felt strangely calm considering that he wasn't sure what day it was supposed to be.

There was a creak of floorboards outside in the hall and the bedroom door opened slightly. Finn's head poked in. "Oh, you're awake," he said softly.

"Hey," Kurt said, resting his elbows on his knees. "What are you doing up?"

Finn breathed a sigh of relief that it was actually Kurt speaking, and he came in and sank onto the bed next to Kurt, propping himself up against the headboard.

"You look tired," Kurt said, leaning back beside his stepbrother.

Finn shrugged. "Yeah, well… Zack made me promise to check on him every half hour 'cause he's still scared of the dark." He yawned, rubbing a hand over his hair. "Are you doing okay?"

Kurt exhaled slowly, letting his head fall back against the wall. "I really don't know."

"Yeah. You're kind of in a tornado of emotional crap right now," Finn stated.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Kurt replied dryly. He sighed again. "Have you talked to Mercedes and Rachel?"

"Not really. I mean, Mercedes and I had a little heart to heart after she met Zack, and Rachel's been rattling on about researching the finest healthcare her dads can buy or something like that, but I'm getting the sense that they're going to be fine."

Kurt smiled. "Good."

Finn's mouth twitched. "Puck, on the other hand…"

"Oh, God…" Kurt cringed. "What did we do and who did it?"

"Truman sort of… made an offer. While making use of a cherry lollipop."

"_What!_" Kurt hissed. "Oh my god, I'm going to be sick. Truman, I'm going to _kill _you!" He hid his face in his hands.

Finn laughed. "Don't worry so much," he said. "Puck thought it was hilarious."

"That makes it _worse!_" Kurt groaned. "Well, I guess that hitting on Puck is just the icing on this poisonous cake."

Finn tilted his head in confusion. "…Your cake has poison in it?"

"No, I…" Kurt sighed, not sure if he should say _everything_ on his mind (or at least, everything on the piece of his mind that actually seemed to belong to him). "I just… First, Blaine finds out. Then, because I'm trying to patch things up with Blaine, Mercedes thinks I'm suicidal. _Then_, the whole school finds out about us, and subsequently, I'm being sent away from the one place I've managed _not_ to have a transition."

He didn't bother to mention that the entire chain of events was kind of Finn's fault.

Finn frowned. "You did switch at school, though… What about after Karofsky attacked you?"

"No, I know. I just somehow never switched in public. Or, if I did, whoever took over somehow kept a low profile. I don't know." He flapped a hand. "It's hard to put together the pieces when I can't remember them."

Finn gave Kurt a sympathetic smile and a pat on the shoulder. He wasn't expecting Kurt's arm to whip up and punch him in the throat.

"_Ow!_" he yelped, coughing and holding his neck. He quickly climbed off the bed and out of Kurt's reach, wheezing.

"_Touch me again and I will rip off your fucking head_."

Finn stared.

Kurt blinked, his eyebrows knitting together. "When did you move over there? Did I just black out?"

"You freaking punched me!" Finn coughed, his voice hoarse as he massaged his voice box.

"Oh, my god, I—" Kurt sprang off the bed, coming over to Finn. "Are you—?" He was cut off by Finn abruptly holding an arm out to keep Kurt away from him.

"I'm fine," Finn croaked. "Just – just give me a minute."

Kurt swallowed and took a step back. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "Do… do you know who it was?"

Finn took a deep breath, finally getting his lungs back under control, though his voice was still stretched and rough. "I…I'm not sure. Robbie, I think." He chewed on his cheek. "I'm… gonna go to bed."

"Wait, Finn—"

"Good night."

* * *

><p>Breakfast in the morning was quiet. Finn hurried off to school as soon as his pancakes had been scarfed down, and Burt seemed to be stewing over the school board's refusal to let Kurt remain enrolled at McKinley, though they all knew that they couldn't really expect anything more. Finally, Burt announced that he had to head in to the shop and shrugged on his coat.<p>

Kurt approached him as Carole cleared the table. "Dad, who's Franklin?"

"…Benjamin?"

"No, I… I dunno, I just kind of had this dream last night," Kurt said. "It just felt like memory from a long time ago, and it was with someone named Franklin."

Burt shrugged. "No idea."

"Okay. Must have just been a dream."

"You sure you're gonna be okay today?" Burt asked, squeezing Kurt's shoulder. "Cause I don't have to go to work if you don't want me to. I can call Randy and have him—"

"Dad, I'm fine," Kurt cut him off with a forced smile. "As fine as I'll ever be."

Burt sighed. "All right. But, Kurt, you call me _as soon as_—"

"I know, Dad. Thanks. I'll see you later."

Burt nodded, pulling Kurt into a hug. He knew that 'I'll see you later' where Kurt was concerned was a much looser term than it was with most people.

Once Burt was gone, Kurt sat back down at the kitchen table, just so he was in the same room as someone. Carole, who was currently washing the dishes, had called the hospital and taken a leave of absence for two weeks in order to stay home with her stepson. Kurt felt badly that she was missing work, but he was also _very_ grateful for her presence. Despite his lasting love for his biological mother, Carole was and always would be the next best thing.

"Carole, something happened last night," he blurted out, not really realizing that he had spoken until she turned around.

"What was it?"

"I don't know," he said, clasping his hands on the table. "Finn and I were just talking, and then… I blacked out for only a couple of seconds, but I punched him in the throat."

"Oh, I thought his voice sounded a little funny this morning," Carole mused. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and sat down across from him. "Do you know who it was?"

"Finn says it might've been Robbie, but… I don't know, it just doesn't seem like something Robbie would do." Kurt chewed on his thumb's cuticle nervously. "And I think I said something bad, because Finn was _really_ freaked out."

"Hmm." Carole rested her chin in her hand. "I've heard that keeping a journal can help with this, especially if you can get each alter to contribute. You think you should give that a go?"

Kurt let out a heavy breath, his shoulders slumping uncharacteristically. "At this point, I'm willing to try anything."

She reached across the table and wrapped her hand around his wrist. "Kurt," she said softly, making Kurt look her in the eye. "You're going to be okay. You know that, right?"

Kurt swallowed. "I'm sure Zack thinks that way, but I'm not sure about the rest of me."

Carole's mouth tightened – she was trying to suppress a smile.

"Oh, God, you're thinking about what Truman did to Puck," Kurt groaned, letting his forehead_ thunk_ against the table.

"Come on, it was funny!"

"No! No, it wasn't! I hit on a guy who calls himself _Puckzilla_! That is not funny!"

Carole paused. "As I recall, _you_ called _him_ Puckzilla."

"Rrrgh."


	16. House Of Cards

_House Of Cards  
><em>

Mentally speaking, Eleanor was the strongest person in Kurt's body, and she knew it. Most of the time, she was shoved into what was for all intents and purposes a dungeon – small, cramped, and dark. She _hated_ it, and she hated Kurt for putting her there. As far as she was concerned, he deserved a little wrist cutting now and again. He was keeping her from _everything_. She'd had to go through male puberty when she was supposed to be getting her period and dreaming about marrying Justin Bieber or some crap like it. Instead, she was stuck in the body of a practically grown up _man_, and it felt disgusting.

She supposed that, even if Kurt gave up and let her be the dominant personality, she still wouldn't get to live normally. She could've gotten a sex change easily enough, but her mind was just… stuck. She'd never age past eleven even if the body grew old. She hated Kurt even more for insisting she didn't have a right to be there.

It fucking _sucked_.

As Carole stood up to finish the dishes, Eleanor muscled Kurt out of the way and took hold of the body. She stood and strode out of the room without so much as a word to Kurt's stepmother, heading upstairs to Kurt's room.

_What are you doing?_ she heard Kurt ask. It was extremely unusual for them to be awake at the same time, and it was more than a little annoying to have Kurt yapping at her from the back of her head, but he couldn't do anything while she was in control so for the most part, she ignored him.

"I'm changing," she replied. "I fucking hate how you dress."

_Fine. You can grab something out of Robbie's drawer._

Eleanor slammed the bedroom door behind her. "Yeah, that's not gonna happen. Why don't you have any girl clothes?"

_Gee, I don't know, maybe because I'm a GUY?_

Eleanor sighed, digging through Kurt's bureau and grimacing at how big and thick Kurt's hands were. "Well, you have drawers for everyone except me. Seem fair to you?"

_I have to share my body with a PSYCHOTIC SIXTH GRADER. Does that seem fair to YOU, Lisa Frank?_

That did it. Eleanor grabbed a framed photograph off the dresser of Kurt and Blaine and smashed it against the wall, pieces of glass raining down onto the carpet. "Whoops," she said.

_You're a bitch._

"So you've said." She knelt down and pulled the slightly crinkled photo out of the broken frame, staring at it thoughtfully for a few moments. It had been taken on Valentine's Day of last year, before Blaine and Kurt had raised the level of their relationship, and they were making faces at the camera along with a couple of other Warbler members, though the two of them were front and center. "Your boyfriend hightailed it, huh?" Eleanor said with a slight grin.

She could feel rage from Kurt seeping through the body. _He's not gone._

"Yet."

_Yet._

Eleanor smiled. "Well, you know what I think?"

_I really don't give a crap._

"I think we should help him move on A.S.A.P." In one swift movement, she tore the photograph in two, then tore it again, and again, and again.

_I HATE YOU._

"Yeah," Eleanor sighed, letting the fragments of their faces fall back to the floor. "But what can you really do about it? I'm only protecting you from heartache." She chuckled, ignoring Kurt's yelling and moving over to the vanity table.

Eleanor had decided a long time ago that she hated Kurt's fashion choices, but most of all, she hated his hair. She wanted _long_ hair. She wanted hair that could be pulled into pigtails or piled into a bun or curled into layers.

_Don't you dare do anything to my hair. Truman already messes it up enough._

Eleanor grinned at Kurt's reflection in the mirror. If she couldn't have the hair she wanted, then neither would he. She stood up and went to the bathroom down the hall, pulling the scissors Carole used to cut Finn's hair out of the medicine cabinet. Paying no attention to Kurt's indignant protests, Eleanor seized a fistful of his hair and sliced through it, letting the severed clump fall onto the counter by the sink.

_STOP IT!_ screamed Kurt.

Eleanor smiled and grabbed another chunk of hair.

* * *

><p>Carole sat with a fresh mug of tea in the living room, leaning back in her favorite armchair and focusing on her well-worn sudoku book. Kurt had gone upstairs a little while ago, and she hadn't heard anything unusual so she figured that he was fine, whether or not he'd transitioned.<p>

Her cell phone buzzed on the coffee table, breaking her concentration. She answered it without checking the caller ID. "Hello?"

"_Hi, Ms. Hudson… I-I'm really sorry, I just didn't know who else to call…_" The words tumbled down the line almost before Carole could recognize the voice.

She set her puzzle book on the arm of her chair. "Blaine, what's wrong?"

"_I don't know, I guess… I guess I'm kind of having a nervous breakdown?_" His voice wavered.

Carole sighed. "Okay, where are you?"

"_Um… Schoonover Park,_" he said."_On the east side of the lake_."

There was a _thump_ from upstairs, and the hairs on Carole's arms prickled. "Blaine, I'd love to come get you but I can't leave Kurt by himself right now."

"_O-okay,_" he said. "_Bye_."

"Wait," she stopped him. "Look, I have to check on Kurt for a second, but I'll call you back in a few minutes, okay? Can you sit tight?" She waited for Blaine to accept before hanging up and quickly climbing the stairs.

She had just reached the top when Kurt yelled her name from the bathroom. "Kurt? What's—" She faltered in the doorway, her eyes widening and her mouth falling open. "Oh, God…"

Kurt was standing in front of the mirror, clumps of his hair scattered over the sink and floor. There was a huge splotch of bright red blood staining his neck and shoulder, and he was holding a towel to the side of his head. Carole rushed over to him, pulling the towel back to see the cut, which was fairly deep and directly across the top half of his ear.

"God, what happened?"

"Eleanor decided she wanted a haircut," Kurt spat, though Carole knew that the rage lacing his words wasn't directed at her. "I don't know if the ear was an accident or not."

Carole sighed, running the towel under water before pressing it to the injury again. She ran her other hand through Kurt's remaining hair, pulling out any stray clumps that hadn't fallen. Eleanor hadn't gotten most of his hair, but it was enough to leave several almost-bald spots and a very noticeable unevenness – he looked vaguely like a dog with mange. "I think we're gonna have to cut the rest of it off too, honey."

Kurt exhaled, his jaw muscle twitching. "I know."

She squeezed his shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll keep it as long as possible." She let Kurt hold the towel again and wet a washcloth to rinse the drying blood off of his neck.

"Would you have dated my dad?" Kurt blurted out. "I mean, if you'd known about me?"

Carole hesitated, thrown off-balance by the abrupt question.

Kurt hung his head, her short pause not short enough. He quickly wiped his eyes, unsuccessfully trying to hide the tears he hadn't been expecting.

"No, no, Kurt," Carole said quickly, grabbing his shoulders and turning him to face her so he would look her in the eye. "Kurt, I was _so_ scared and – and _shocked_ when I found out about your alters, but… I was scared for _you_. I mean, maybe you and your father should have told Finn and I sooner, but it wouldn't have changed a thing. You are my family, and not only that, you're family that I _chose_. And no matter what the circumstances, I'd choose you all over again."

Rather than simply cry like Carole expected, Kurt _collapsed_ onto her shoulder, his body shaking. For a moment, she thought that maybe he'd transitioned to Tyler, but she quickly realized it was still Kurt. She reached up and held him tightly, supporting most of his weight and rubbing circles on his back as he sobbed into her shoulder.

"Kurt, you're my son," Carole said softly, brushing a hand over the back of his head. "For better or worse."

There was no response. Eventually, Kurt's sobs faded off into silent crying – he was too exhausted to do anything else. He simply stood there, leaning against her and trying to breathe.

"Come on, honey," Carole broke the quiet several minutes later, giving Kurt a gentle pat on the shoulder. "Why don't you sleep for a little bit? We can deal with your hair later."

Kurt nodded wordlessly and allowed Carole to guide him back to his bedroom.

She stayed with him until he fell asleep (which wasn't long), then went back downstairs, resolving to clean up the bathroom as soon as she'd called Blaine back. She sank back into her armchair and hit the Redial button on her ancient cell phone.

Blaine picked up on the first ring. "_Hello?_"

"Hi, Blaine, I'm sorry that took so long," she said. "Are you feeling any better?"

There was a long pause. "_I'm not really sure what I'm feeling right now…_"

"I know. Listen, I know it's kind of hard to have this conversation over the phone, but I can't leave Kurt alone. Do you want to come by the house?"

"_I, uh… I don't know…_" Blaine stammered.

"It's okay," Carole said quickly, saving him from having to answer. "We can talk on the phone if you want."

"_No, it's fine,_" Blaine replied hastily, a touch of panic seeping into his voice. "_You know what, I'm okay. I'll— Thanks, I guess._"

He hung up before she could say anything else.


	17. Merry Go Round

_Merry-Go-Round  
><em>

The student body at McKinley hadn't yet forgotten about Jacob's article, and Finn spent the day receiving wary glances and dirty looks from most of the kids he didn't know. More than a little annoyed, Finn decided to ignore them for the time being and he stuck close to the people he _did_ know and trust. At their usual lunch table, everyone in the club was present except for Blaine. Finn was squished between Mike and Santana, halfheartedly picking at the soggy cafeteria pizza.

"So, what's with the bruise?" Santana asked, forcing Finn to look up.

"Huh? What bruise?"

"On your neck," she said, gesturing to her throat. "What happened?"

"I don't see a bruise," Artie said from across the table.

Santana rolled her eyes. "All my brothers are kickboxers. I know my bruises."

Finn scratched at his neck self-consciously. "It's nothing," he said.

Puck raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, like we're going to buy that." He crunched a carrot between his teeth. "So, which Kurt did it?"

Finn gave him a frosty glare. "Just because you spent an hour with two of Kurt's alters doesn't give you the right to just waltz into our home life."

Puck held up his hands. "Jeez. Chill."

"I really don't understand what's going on, anyway," Tina piped up from Mike's other side. "I mean… Kurt's more than one person? How is that even possible?"

"It's possible," Finn replied tightly.

"No, it isn't," Quinn cut in, stabbing at her salad bowl. "It's a defense mechanism and that's all."

Finn's eyes narrowed at her. "Sorry, but who in your family has DID?"

"Nobody, because it's not real." Before Finn could open his mouth again, she continued harshly. "I am not saying that whatever Kurt went through wasn't terrible, but one person cannot have more than one personality – it's impossible. After I had Beth, I changed everything about myself to cope with the loss, and that's exactly what Kurt's doing."

Finn had to swallow the sour taste in his mouth before responding. "You joining the Skanks and dying your hair and getting a stupid tattoo does _not_ mean that you can compare yourself to Kurt's situation," he said slowly, his eyes hard. "You had a baby and gave her away, big freaking deal. At least you can _remember_ what happened to you. Actually, scratch that, nothing happened _to_ you. You did it all to yourself, so throw yourself a private pity party and back the hell off my brother."

He shoved his lunch tray away and stood up, storming out of the cafeteria and leaving the rest of the table stunned.

There was an awkward silence that stretched over the rest of the club until Mercedes finally sighed and turned to Quinn. "You should be ashamed."

"I'm only pointing out the reality," Quinn insisted. "I don't know what Kurt went through, but I know it was awful and I know that he _does_ need to cope somehow. There's nothing wrong with that. All I'm saying is that it's ridiculous to assume he would or even _could_ split into more than one person."

"I agree with Quinn," Sugar piped up from beside Rory, who looked like he'd much rather be doing anything than debating mental illness.

Rachel shook her head. "Have you even _seen_ him?" she asked Quinn. "I mean, when he's not Kurt?"

"No, but it doesn't matter—"

"Yes, it does," Puck interrupted. "Finn's right. I don't care what you believe – I saw two of his other people and they were _not_ Kurt. Plus, they didn't have a clue who Mercedes was. If that's not proof, I don't know what is."

Quinn pursed her mouth. "The human brain is capable of a lot of things," she said. "But holding more than one person is something it _can't _do."

* * *

><p>Finn was still seething at the end of the day. He pulled his truck in to park next to Kurt's Navigator and stepped out into the cold snow, his breath fogging in front of his nose. Climbing the steps onto the porch, he stomped the snow off his boots and entered the kitchen to see Kurt sitting at the table reading the newspaper, clothed in one of Robbie's Black Sabbath t-shirts and jeans.<p>

"Hey, Rob," he said, hanging up his coat.

"No, it's me," replied Kurt's voice.

Finn frowned. "Um, why are you dressed like Robbie, then?" he asked, then stopped short, his mouth falling open. "And why do you have no hair?!"

Kurt sighed, running a hand over his head. His hair had been cut close to the scalp, leaving not much more than a military buzz behind. He wasn't bald by any means, but it did look incredibly strange. "Eleanor went a little crazy this morning," he said. "Carole had to buzz it to make it even."

"Jeez." Finn sat down across from Kurt. "That sucks."

"I know. She got my ear a little, too." Kurt gestured to the scabbed-over slice across the top half of his ear. Finn winced.

"So… why are you dressed like Robbie?"

Kurt shrugged. "Robbie was around for awhile this afternoon, and I didn't really feel like changing. Not to mention the fact that my wardrobe has been rendered pretty much useless because of my new hairstyle."

Finn grinned. "Well, I think it makes you look butch."

"Please, I _am_ butch."

The two of them laughed, Kurt running his hand over his head again. "God, it feels weird. I've never had it this short."

"Wow, I never noticed before, but your widow's peak is _huge_."

"Shut up."

"No, seriously! You look like Dracula!"

"Yeah, well, maybe I'll develop an alter who's a vampire."

Finn's eyes widened, his imagination running wild. "I can't decide if that would be scary or really freaking cool."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "You watch too many movies." He stood up and set about brewing a mug of tea. "How was school?"

Finn shrugged, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "It was okay, I guess. Everyone's still worried about you." He decided not to mention Quinn's blatant and insulting disbelief in Kurt's condition.

"I'm surprised they haven't all run away screaming," Kurt said dryly, his back to Finn as he poured hot water into his cup.

"Come on, dude, they won't do that."

"Not that I'd blame them," Kurt continued, seeming not to have heard Finn. "Hey, have you spoken to Blaine? I haven't really seen him since our fight."

"Sorry, no."

Kurt let out a long breath, staring out the window over the sink. "He won't return my calls."

"He'll come around," Finn promised. "Don't worry about it too much." He watched Kurt, waiting for a response, but Kurt's shoulders slumped and he swayed for a moment before steadying himself. "Kurt? You okay?"

When Kurt didn't speak, Finn stood up to place a hand on Kurt's shoulder. Kurt smacked it away.

"Fuck off, homo."

Finn huffed. "Oh. Hey, Craig." All the irritability that Finn had been feeling before walking in the door rushed back as Kurt pulled a beer out of the fridge and yanked the cap off with his teeth. "Don't suppose there's any chance of you letting Kurt back at the wheel right now, is there?"

Kurt's lip curled. "I oughta beat that little faggot's ass. That is, unless Kurt throws himself off a bridge first, and hey, let's face it, that would be better for everybody."

Finn flinched involuntarily, feeling sick. He couldn't think of anything to say. Kurt simply turned and went to the living room to watch the football game.

* * *

><p>It was nearing eleven at night when Blaine was startled awake by his cell phone blasting the <em>Wallace &amp; Gromit<em> theme from his bedside table. Groggily, he fumbled to press the answer button. "What is it, Finn?" he yawned.

"_Is Kurt with you?_"

Blaine's eyebrows snapped together, his brain suddenly alert. "No, why?"

Finn swore loudly.

"Finn, what's going on?" Blaine demanded, sitting upright and turning on his lamp.

"_Kurt was here, he was fine, and then… I dunno, he must have snuck out. His car's gone,_" Finn rushed. "_But Kurt wouldn't sneak out, which means that one of the alters is loose._" He swore again.

Blaine's heart quickened and he quickly grabbed a sweatshirt from his closet. "Okay, I'm on my way out. Where are you?"

"_I'm just leaving the house,_" Finn said, and Blaine could hear Finn's truck's door slam shut and the engine start. "_Can you call the rest of the club?_"

"Absolutely. He's probably at Rachel's or Mercedes' house."

"_Well, I hope he is, because if he's not, we don't know where he is._"


	18. Cotton Candy

_Cotton Candy  
><em>

Within an hour, the entire glee club knew that Kurt was missing, and half of them were out looking for him. Rachel, Santana, and Mercedes were searching the parks and outdoor locations that Kurt liked, Puck and Mike had gone to the bowling alley (Finn knew that nearly all of Kurt's alters loved bowling) and the movie theater, and Tina was keeping Artie company at his house while he attempted to activate the GPS signal on Kurt's phone using Finn's cell. Finn and Blaine were now driving by the school just to double check that the Navigator wasn't in the parking lot.

Blaine's phone rang in his pocket. "Hello?" A moment later, he handed it to Finn. "It's for you."

Finn held the phone to his ear. "_Okay, so the GPS thing is taking a little while,_" Artie said from the other end. "_You're going to have to sit tight on that one. As for updates through the phone tree, everyone's gone to the places you said and no one's seen any sign of him. Any other ideas?_"

Finn sighed. "I'll call you back."

"_Better do it quick – the girls are running out of places to check._"

Finn hung up, scowling at the road ahead in thought.

"We can't keep just checking places Kurt might go and hope for the best," Blaine said from the passenger seat. "Where would his alters go?"

"I don't know," Finn replied, frustration making his jaw twitch.

"Do you have any idea who could be in control right now?"

Finn forced himself to take a deep breath and _think_. "Um… well, he took the car, so that means whoever it is knows how to drive. That rules out Zack, Tyler, and Eleanor, and Schism wouldn't do anything at all, let alone sneak out of the house."

Blaine nodded. "Okay, so who's left?"

"Craig, Robbie, and…" Finn trailed off. "I think I know where he is."

"Where?"

"It's Truman," he said. "I think he went to Scandals. Either there or one of the other bars."

Blaine snatched his phone back and called Artie. "Artie, call the guys and have them search the bars and pubs."

"_They're underage, Blaine,_" Artie replied.

"Not a problem for Puck."

"_Good point. I'll get back to you ASAP._" He hung up.

"Okay," Finn said. "How do I get to Scandals?"

They pulled into the parking lot beneath the small purple neon sign twenty minutes later, Finn skidding a little on the icy puddles by the door. "You stay here," Blaine said. "The doorman's seen me before – he'll card you."

Finn nodded, though he wasn't happy about it. Blaine jumped out of the truck and burst through the door, shoving past the doorman with barely a nod of acknowledgment. He frantically scanned the dimly lit noisy room, searching the faces of the men at the bar and on the dance floor while his heart thudded against his ribcage. Recognizing no one except the staff, Blaine hurried over to the bar and caught the bartender's attention.

"What can I get for you, hot shot?"

Blaine ignored the quip and immediately launched into a description of Kurt. "…He's about this tall and—"

"What's going on?" a voice interrupted from Blaine's left.

He turned to see Dave Karofsky standing next to him. "Dave! Have you seen Kurt?"

"Yeah, he was here, why?"

Blaine let out a sigh of relief, and then froze. "Wait… he _was_ here?"

Dave nodded, his brow furrowing. "Yeah, he left about an hour and a half ago. What's going on?"

Blaine swore under his breath, running a hand over his hair, which was un-gelled and mussed. "Was he with anyone?"

Dave chewed on his lip. "He was with that other guy – the one from Dalton? They, um… well, they looked like they were a little more than friends."

Blaine's heart plummeted downwards and crashed through the bottom of his stomach. "Sebastian?"

"Yeah, him."

Swearing again, this time loudly, Blaine dug his phone out of his pocket and was about to call Kurt's cell for the umpteenth time that night when Dave spoke again.

"I think— I dunno, there was something… off… about Kurt," he said. "He cut off all his hair, he was dressing different… He just didn't seem himself."

Blaine nodded. "I know, we're dealing with it."

"Can I help you look for him?"

"If you have Sebastian's home phone number, that would be great," Blaine said, a little bit snappishly. He didn't really care about his tone at the moment, though.

Dave shook his head apologetically. "Sorry, we didn't really talk at all. I don't even know his cell number. Is everything okay?"

"Not even close."

Blaine dialed Kurt's cell and strode out of the bar without saying goodbye to Dave. The call went unanswered, however, and Blaine frantically punched in Sebastian's cell number as he climbed back into the cab of Finn's truck.

"He's not in there?" asked Finn.

Blaine shook his head, listening to the dial tone and hoping for the first time that Sebastian would answer. "He left an hour and a half ago with Sebastian."

"_Crap._" Finn slapped the steering wheel in frustration.

"Damn it, Sebastian's not picking up," Blaine said, trying not to think about what that meant.

"Do you know where Sebastian lives?"

Blaine shook his head, redialing Artie's phone. "Artie, please tell me you've got the GPS going."

"_Sorry, but I hit a dead end – Kurt's phone isn't even on. It needs to be on for anyone to track its position._"

Finn swore again.

Blaine's mind raced. "Artie, go onto Facebook and see if you can find anything about where Sebastian Smythe lives. I'll call the other Warblers and see if they know."

There was a _very_ short pause before Artie spat, "_Sebastian?! Kurt's with _him?"

"We're pretty sure."

It was Artie's turn to swear. "_Okay, searching now. I'll call you back._"

Blaine's idea of calling the other Warblers proved completely fruitless – Sebastian was a boarding student, only going home on the weekends, and he never invited anyone else with him. Trent reported that Sebastian definitely lived in Allen County, but that left Blaine and Finn with just over four hundred square miles to comb through.

Artie called back after several minutes to deliver the bad news that Sebastian's Facebook account was locked down tight, and Googling the district attorney had provided only a political history of Sebastian's father – no address.

"What do we do now?" asked Blaine.

Finn sighed, gritting his teeth. "I guess… we wait."

* * *

><p>Snow was beginning to fall around three A.M. and Blaine was eventually forced to go home by a panicked phone call from his mother. After dropping him off, Finn stopped by Artie's to pick up his cell phone and then headed back to his own house. Carole had been dozing on the couch, but Burt was still wide awake and as soon as Finn walked in the door he was bombarded with a cascade of questions. He explained to Burt that they knew who Kurt was with, though not <em>where<em>, and that there was nothing left to do but wait and keep calling Kurt and hoping for the best.

"That doesn't sit right with me," Burt snapped. "You made me stay here when you were out looking. Now that you're not looking, _I'm_ going out."

Finn moved to stop him. "We don't know where Sebastian lives, Burt. How are you going to find him?"

"God dammit, Finn, I'm a member of Congress. I have pull with the D.A.'s office now, so I'm gonna call them up, screw their business hours, and I'm gonna weed Smythe's address out of them!"

Burt practically shoved Finn out of the way and grabbed his coat, about to storm out to his truck. He stopped short in front of the door, however, as a pair of headlights cut through the flurries of snow coming down outside, pulling into the driveway. As the engine shut off, Burt burst through the door with Finn following quickly behind.

"Kurt!" Burt called.

Finn stopped just behind Burt, feeling the air rush out of his lungs as Kurt slowly climbed out of the driver's seat. His clothes (jeans and a white t-shirt belonging to Truman) were wrinkled and his body sagged, not even shivering as the snow stuck to his shoulders and exposed head. His face was blotchy from crying and so exhausted that his expression was twisted into something so unrecognizable that Finn felt his stomach curl.

"Are you all right?" Burt asked.

Kurt let out a strange choked-back sound. "No," he said.

And then collapsed into Burt's arms.


	19. Sliced Bread

_Sliced Bread  
><em>

Sebastian wasn't usually a boyfriend poacher, though the idea of doing so really didn't bother him. This whole thing with Blaine, though, had definitely turned into a poaching circumstance. Sebastian knew he wanted Blaine on _his_ arm and in _his_ bed rather than Kurt's, so he was willing to go out of his way to make their relationship as strained as possible. Blaine had to finally wake up and see that Sebastian was the better choice. He'd been working the kinks out of a masterminded plan to slice an axe between Kurt and Blaine, the details of which involved Michael Jackson and laced slushies, but the events of tonight had thrown him for a loop and rendered the plan useless and unnecessary.

He was more than happy to see that apparently Kurt and Blaine had taken the axe to their own relationship before Sebastian had a chance to.

Sebastian hadn't anticipated seeing Kurt at Scandals by himself, for once wearing _actual_ guy clothes, with a cigarette in his hand and an oddly masculine haircut. He hadn't anticipated hip-grinding with Kurt to the beat of Blondie's _Call Me_, and he definitely hadn't anticipated Kurt to suggest they go back to Sebastian's house.

He guessed that Kurt and Blaine had a big fight of some kind and this was Kurt's (kind of sick) way of getting back at Blaine, but Sebastian didn't really care. It wasn't his problem, after all.

Now, Sebastian was sitting at his desk, naked since he hadn't bothered to pull on any clothes when he got out of bed, staring at his laptop. He hadn't showered and he still smelled like cigarette smoke and sweat, but it wasn't even two A.M. yet and he had other things on his mind.

"What are you doing?" came Kurt's voice from the bed.

"Looking up potential songs for the Warblers' Regionals set list," Sebastian replied. "I see you're awake."

"What can I say? You wore me out."

Sebastian chuckled and spun his chair around. "I have to admit, Kurt, I was not expecting you to be on top."

Kurt grinned, propping himself up against the headboard of Sebastian's bed. "I'm just full of surprises," he said, grabbing his Marlboros off of the bedside table.

"I'd rather you didn't smoke in here."

Kurt's eyebrows quirked, then he tossed the cigarettes back onto the table. "All right, fine." He scratched at the buzzed hair behind his ear for a moment before throwing the covers back and standing up. "I have to take a piss."

"Bathroom's down the hall."

Kurt returned a few minutes later and sank onto the side of the bed. "Are you going to stare at your computer all fucking night?" he asked gruffly. "'Cause I need to get off at least three more times tonight and it's your turn to be on top."

Sebastian frowned for a moment, confused by the way Kurt was talking. He didn't spend too much time thinking about it, though, and rejoined Kurt on the bed. Within a few minutes they were a tangle of limbs and grunts and heavy breathing, and Sebastian's fingers dug into Kurt's hips.

And Kurt screamed.

Sebastian leaped backwards, startled. The scream had definitely _not_ been the good kind, and he couldn't figure out why the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck were suddenly standing on end. Kurt had curled into a ball on Sebastian's bed, shaking.

"Kurt? Are – are you okay?"

"No, _doooon't_," Kurt whined, and Sebastian's eyes widened.

"Kurt, you're freaking me out." In any other situation, Sebastian would have made some quip about ruining the mood, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was actually something _very_ wrong.

Kurt's hands curled over his ears. "Go away!" he cried, shuddering.

Sebastian edged closer nervously, reaching out to put a hand on Kurt's shoulder. "Kurt, what is—"

In the blink of an eye, Kurt had sprung to his feet and slammed Sebastian into the wall. Sebastian fell onto the floor, looking up at Kurt standing over him with his fists clenched and his eyes wild. "_Touch me again and I fucking swear to God I will slit your throat._"

"What the _hell_—"

Kurt's eyes fluttered for a second and he swayed on his feet. Sebastian thought he might collapse – maybe he was having some sort of seizure or something – but Kurt righted himself before he could fall.

Then, as Kurt blinked and took in his surroundings (and why did it look like he was seeing Sebastian for the first time?), he _did_ collapse. He didn't fall or even move, but somehow Sebastian could see Kurt's insides crumbling, and _collapse_ was the only word Sebastian could think of that came even close to describing it.

"Kurt…?" Sebastian started, his blood roaring in his ears.

Kurt's hands rose, clamping over his mouth, and he spun around and _ran_ to the bathroom. Sebastian heard him retch into the toilet.

His head spinning, Sebastian stood and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and one of the t-shirts he sometimes wore to bed. He had no clue what on earth was happening to Kurt, but he was absolutely certain at this point that it was a lot more serious than some spat with his boyfriend would warrant. He picked up Kurt's clothes from where they'd been tossed across the floor and went down the hall to the bathroom.

"Kurt?" he started.

Kurt was still bent over the toilet, but now he was dry heaving, his stomach empty. Sebastian set the pile of clothes on the counter next to the sink and squatted down next to Kurt.

"Kurt, what the hell is going on?"

There was an odd strangled sound that came from Kurt's throat before he could answer. "I can't tell you," he sobbed.

Sebastian huffed. "After _that_?! You owe me an explana—"

"_We don't owe you a fucking thing_," Kurt snarled, making Sebastian jump. He blinked. "Can you leave me alone?" he choked out. "I need to get dressed."

Sebastian sighed, but did as Kurt asked and went to stand in the hallway. All thoughts of his intentions towards Kurt were forgotten as he struggled to process everything that had just taken place. Replaying the last three minutes (Jesus, was it really only that long?) over in his head, Sebastian tried to connect the dots, but it seemed like each dot was on a separate page.

Wait, had Kurt just referred to himself as a _we_?

Before Sebastian could even try to come up with an answer to that question, Kurt rushed out of the bathroom and towards the stairs, heading for the front door.

"Kurt, wait!" Sebastian called, following quickly. "Stop!"

Kurt didn't hear Sebastian as he slammed the front door behind him.

Sebastian quickly yanked the door open again and ran out onto the porch, the cold seeping into his feet and his breath fogging in the air. Snowflakes were beginning to fall.

"Kurt!" he yelled.

Sebastian watched as Kurt jumped into his car and pealed back onto the road, disappearing around the corner.

* * *

><p>It was nearly four A.M. before Kurt finally fell asleep, having fallen onto the couch as soon as Burt half-carried him inside and not moved or spoken since. Burt, Carole, and Finn all remained awake in the kitchen, drinking coffee since none of them saw the point of going to bed at this point. Not to mention the fact that they couldn't have slept if they'd tried.<p>

Finn sat at the island counter, his brain filled with cotton. He didn't know what the outcome of this would be for Kurt. Maybe he'd be stuck as Schism for days, or maybe Craig would beat Kurt up.

"I'm gonna kill this Sebastian kid," Burt growled for the hundredth time.

Carole squeezed his arm. "Burt, you don't know that Sebastian did anything—"

"Are you serious, Carole? Why don't you go take a look?" He gestured furiously in the direction of the living room.

Carole set her jaw, stubborn and patient at the same time. "It's possible that Truman is the one who initiated… whatever happened. Actually, knowing Truman, it's likely."

Finn swallowed a large gulp of coffee, trying to wash down the bile in his throat.

"Just… before we do anything at all," Carole continued, her hand gripping Burt's shoulder, "we need to hear Kurt's side of it."

"It was Truman, not Kurt," Burt snapped. "Kurt doesn't have a side."

"He woke up, Burt," Carole said sternly. "He woke up, and he made it home."

"Yeah…" Burt sighed. "Yeah, I guess he did."

Silence stretched over the kitchen, and Finn wondered why everything seemed quieter in the early hours of the morning, muted as if someone had turned down the volume knob. Soon, he'd have to get ready for school and try to explain to their friends that Kurt was home and safe, fully aware that the second part of that was a lie.


	20. Thin Ice

_Thin Ice_

Kurt's body felt like it was made of lead. Even the act of breathing felt like it took a bodybuilder's strength, and his head was so full of cobwebs that he couldn't think. He vaguely felt that he was being lifted, carried upwards. Up to his room? He was too sleepy to care.

He was dropped onto his bed and he fumbled to climb under the covers, but whoever had carried him upstairs stopped him, saying something along the lines of "_Not yet_" that sounded muffled and very far away.

"I wan' go beh," Kurt slurred. Why wouldn't his tongue work? His mouth felt numb. His whole body felt numb.

The man who had spoken was nothing more than a dark blur, with undefined limbs and no face. Kurt felt the man's hands pull off his pajamas, stripping them away from his limp legs.

The man's palm ran down Kurt's spine, moving lower—

He screamed at the top of his lungs.

* * *

><p>"Mercedes! Wait up!"<p>

Mercedes halted on her way to the parking lot after classes finished, turning to see Quinn hurrying to catch up. Her mouth tightened. "What?"

Quinn shifted her stack of schoolbooks to her other arm as she stopped next to Mercedes. "You're going to Kurt's house, right?"

Mercedes only raised her eyebrows expectantly.

"Can I come with you?"

"Why? You don't even think Kurt's sick."

"Just because I don't believe that DID is real doesn't mean I don't believe Kurt's going through a lot right now," Quinn defended herself. "He's my friend; I'd like to support him."

Mercedes felt rage boil underneath her breastbone. "Well, I'm sure the National Alliance for Mental Illness is accepting donations," she snapped, briskly turning on her toes and resuming her walk towards the parking lot.

"Wait!" Quinn called, quickly walking beside her, though Mercedes refused to stop. "That is so unfair, Mercedes – why can't I come? And why the _hell_ are you the one who gets to say who visits him and who doesn't?"

"I'm not," Mercedes retorted as they descended the steps from the front entrance to the lot, their breath fogging in the air. "If you're gonna have this kind of attitude towards him, then I'm pretty sure that _he_ doesn't want you there." She fished her keys out of her pocket and unlocked her blue Beetle, tossing her book bag inside before sinking into the driver's seat. "But if you want to come, then come. You can drive yourself."

She slammed the door and pulled the car out of its parking space, leaving Quinn shivering in her cardigan and t-strap heels.

When she arrived at the Hudson-Hummels' house, she was somewhat relieved to see that the only cars in the driveway actually belonged there. She wasn't in the mood to put up with Puck's cracks and Rachel's sugar cookies. She just wanted some time with Kurt. Though, come to think of it, she wasn't sure if he'd be… home.

God, this was so messed up.

Mercedes pulled her coat tighter around her torso as she navigated the icy path through the snowdrifts covering the front lawn. Her boots _thunked_ loudly against the wood slats of the porch, and she rang the doorbell with her heart in her throat.

Carole answered the door almost immediately. "Oh," she said hesitantly. "Hi, Mercedes."

"Is Kurt here?" Mercedes asked, chewing on her lip. "And… available?"

"Uh…" Carole cast a glance over her shoulder. "You know what, it's probably time we woke him up anyways. Come on in." She held the door open for Mercedes. "Do you want a cup of tea or hot chocolate or something? It's freezing out."

"No, I'm fine," Mercedes said. "Kurt's upstairs?"

"Actually, he's on the couch." Carole rubbed her hands nervously as she walked down the hallway, Mercedes following behind.

"Is he… okay?"

Carole sighed, stopping before they reached the living room. "Mercedes… he had a really rough night. We're not entirely sure what happened, exactly, so… this might not be a good time for you to be here."

Mercedes nodded. "Okay. Just say the word and I'll leave."

Carole gave her a tight smile. "Oh, and try not to mention his hair," she said quickly, then turned and walked into the living room before Mercedes could ask what the hell she meant.

…Oh. That's what she meant.

Kurt was sprawled out across the couch stomach-down, the side of his face creased with marks from the cushions. He was twitching a little in his sleep from a dream or a nightmare, and Mercedes felt her hand fly up to her mouth of its own accord at the sight of his almost-shaved head.

Carole went and sat on the edge of the couch by his legs. "Kurt, honey, wake up," she said softly. She reached out and put a hand on the small of his back.

Mercedes jumped, almost backing into the wall when Kurt abruptly screamed at the top of his lungs. He jerked awake, thrashing at Carole as his chest heaved. Carole grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to look her in the eye. "Kurt! Kurt, you're okay," she said loudly. "You're fine."

It took several seconds – _way_ too long – for Kurt's pupils to dilate and focus, allowing him to realize that it was his stepmother holding him. Once he did, his body slackened. "Sorry," he said, his voice hoarse. His eyes traveled and found Mercedes, and he gave her a sad smile. "Hi, Cedes."

"Hi."

Carole patted him on the knee. "I'll let you two talk," she said, and stood up to go back to the kitchen.

Kurt exhaled heavily, sitting up and running a hand over his buzzed hair. "You can sit down, you know," he said after a few seconds of awkward silence.

"Right." Mercedes sank into the armchair next to the couch, wringing her hands.

Kurt yawned. "What time is it, anyways?"

"About four-thirty. I came right after Glee practice."

He watched her for a moment before speaking. "You didn't have to come."

"Kurt, I can't believe you think I'd stay away from you," Mercedes said. "You're my best friend and I'm here for you, no matter what. I thought that was obvious."

Kurt smiled, his eyes suddenly glassy. "You're right, sorry. Stupid question."

"You're such a dumbass sometimes." Her mouth twitched.

He laughed, and Mercedes was surprised at how odd the noise sounded now. "So how's everything at school? Finn's been trying to keep me up to date, but honestly, I haven't been around much to hear it."

She shrugged, looking down at her hands. "It's fine, I guess. You're all anyone's talking about now."

"Doesn't surprise me."

Mercedes was confused by how…disconnected Kurt seemed. For all the terrifying frenzy surrounding the exposure of his illness, it was startling to see him so calm.

"Kurt, what happened last night?" she asked. "A bunch of us were out looking for you until after two."

Kurt's smile vanished and he looked sick. "I… don't really want to talk about that."

"Then what do you want to talk about?"

"Nothing," Kurt said. Mercedes didn't think she'd ever seen him so _tired_. "…Can I just have a hug instead?"

"Okay."

* * *

><p>"What the <em>hell<em> did you do?"

Sebastian's head snapped up from his World Poetry homework to see Blaine standing on the other side of the table, looking like he was trying very hard not to greet Sebastian with a full-blown physical attack. He was glad that Blaine was holding himself in check, though, since he didn't expect a smackdown in the middle of the Lima Bean would sit well with the staff, not to mention the fact that Blaine was only about half his size. He set his latte down on his notebook, hesitating before responding. "Blaine, I didn't do anything."

"I don't believe you."

Sebastian blinked, surprised by the shaky tone in Blaine's voice. "I'm actually sorry to tell you this, but Kurt initiated it."

"Initiated. What."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sebastian sighed and gestured for Blaine to have a seat. "After Kurt left last night, I found an article on McKinley's gossip blog," he said, lacing his fingers together in his lap. "I promise you, if I had known that Kurt was sick, I would never have let anything happen."

Blaine swallowed, obviously fighting the urge to vomit, and Sebastian couldn't really say he blamed him. "What did you do?"

"I'm sorry—"

"What did you do?"

Sebastian exhaled heavily. "Okay, I'm just going to say it, matter-of-fact," he said, meeting Blaine's glare. "We had sex."

Blaine didn't say anything.

"I swear, I didn't know that he… that he wasn't _Kurt_—"

"Like that makes it any better?" Blaine snapped. "All that proves is that you'd rather screw my boyfriend if he wasn't insane."

"I should've seen that there was something wrong, okay? But I'd had a few beers, and… I don't know. Kurt would never have come on to me if you were in the picture, so I guess I thought that you two had broken up."

Blaine lurched to his feet, his chair scraping noisily across the floor. A couple of the other Lima Bean patrons glanced over, sensing a conflict worth spectating.

"Blaine, wait—" Sebastian stood up as well. "I don't know if it matters, but when he… when he changed? He was acting like a really young kid for a minute, and then he changed again and attacked me."

"I don't think Kurt's going to apologize for that," Blaine said coldly.

Sebastian shook his head. "I'm not looking for an apology. I just thought… I thought Kurt might want to know. I mean…" He trailed off for a second, trying to find the words he needed. "The fact that a child came out during that… situation. It might mean something."

"It's none of your business," Blaine said quickly, though Sebastian could see that Blaine understood exactly what he was insinuating.

"I'm just trying to help. My mom's a psychologist; maybe she can—"

"Screw you," Blaine said through gritted teeth. "Kurt doesn't need your help."

"I know he doesn't need _my_ help," Sebastian replied patiently. "But he does need it from someone."

Blaine's eyes narrowed and he looked like he was about to say something further, but then he shook his head, turned, and marched out of the coffee shop. Sebastian let out a long breath, feeling stretched, and sat down to finish his homework.


	21. Witchgrass

_Witchgrass  
><em>

The weekend rolled in like a tidal wave, taking everyone by surprise. For all the stressful crap that had filled up the week, the days had still gone by quickly. The members of the glee club spent a large percentage of their time talking about Kurt, and yet by the time Saturday came to a close, the only ones who had actually spoken to Kurt (and not his alters) were Finn, Rachel, and Mercedes. Even Mr. Schue had seemed to be stuck with a stunned expression on his face all week.

Quinn, like the rest of them, thought often of Kurt, though it wasn't like she couldn't eat or concentrate on the other things she had to do in her daily life. More than anything, she was annoyed that nearly everyone in the group (except for Sugar, and Quinn wasn't entirely sure if Sugar counted) thought that Quinn shouldn't be allowed to visit him. Even Finn had snapped at her when she'd asked him about a good time to stop by. She didn't understand it. Maybe she and Kurt weren't exactly close, but during her nightmare of a pregnancy in sophomore year he'd been the one to suggest good skincare products and take her shopping for maternity clothes that wouldn't make her look frumpy. Why wouldn't his brother let her do the same for him? Minus the maternity, obviously, and Kurt could always top any advice she'd give him in the skincare field.

She tugged at her short ponytail as she stood in line at the Lima Bean on Sunday afternoon, waiting to put in an order for a low-fat soy frappe and shivering as the coffee shop's entrance opened behind her and let a gust of freezing wind inside. She adjusted her scarf and tugged her too-light denim jacket tighter around her chest, berating herself for choosing fashion over function for the gazillionth time.

"—really uncomfortable being here," a familiar voice from behind her caught her attention. "What was wrong with Starbucks?"

Quinn turned around, about to give Kurt a bright smile and a friendly and supportive greeting, but felt whatever she was going to say vanish from her mind. She nearly did a double-take, seeing Kurt standing at the back of the line with Finn and Rachel. He looked a little shorter, somehow, though Quinn didn't know how that was possible, and the flipped hairstyle he'd been so proud of was gone. Instead of dressing with his trademark fashion flair, he was wearing a drab grey zip-up hoodie and torn black jeans, his hands resting in his pockets. One of his sneakers was untied, though he didn't seem to notice.

Quinn took a deep breath, steeling herself, and quickly sidestepped around the three or four customers between them. "Kurt, hi," she said, forcing the bright smile back onto her face. "It's great to see you out and about."

He blinked at her. "I haven't been chained to a hospital bed, Quinn. But it's good to see you too."

Quinn didn't miss the faltering expressions on Finn and Rachel's faces. Both were clearly unhappy about the fact that she had approached them. "Right," she said. "Well, how are you doing? You've, uh… changed your style a little."

His eyebrows quirked, as if to say, _Really? That's what you came up with for a conversation starter?_ "Yeah…" he replied. "Well, I only woke up in the car a few minutes ago, and I seem to be the only person in me who actually has taste."

Finn made an odd shuffling movement towards the space between Quinn and Kurt, so subtly that she wasn't sure it had been conscious. He was watching her warily, like he was ready to push her away from his stepbrother.

Quinn sighed, focusing her attention back on Kurt. "So… how are you really?"

Kurt shifted slightly, blowing air heavily through his nose. "Honestly? I've got seven extra people rattling around in my head. Not the least of whom is the psychotic eleven-year-old who chopped off my hair and the asshole who chain-smokes and will have sex with anything that moves. I'm miserable."

Rachel chewed on her lip nervously, and Finn's jaw twitched. Quinn paused, unsure of how to respond. After a few moments' hesitation, her reply fell out of her mouth before she could stop it. "Then why don't you stop?"

"_Quinn_…" Rachel started, casting her an urgent look.

Kurt was curious, though, and he frowned at her. "Stop what, exactly?"

"The switching," Quinn answered. "Playing these characters. You know it's not doing you any good."

Finn interrupted forcibly, taking another step towards her. "I'm warning you, you'd better stop talking right now."

Kurt ignored his stepbrother, giving Quinn a level stare. "You think I'm just acting out?"

Abruptly and inexplicably, Quinn felt slightly nervous. "Well, it… seems more likely than, you know, being multiple people at once."

Kurt only nodded calmly. "I suppose that's possible," he said, earning incredulous looks from Finn and Rachel. "Let me ask you something, though. Two of my alters are left-handed. Now, that's a genetic thing, right? So if they're me, wouldn't they all be right-handed?"

Quinn shrugged. "I'm not a psychologist, Kurt; I—"

"That's right. You're not."

Her mouth clamped shut, her heart suddenly thudding in her chest. Kurt was regarding her with a perfectly even gaze that was somehow far more unsettling than any furious glare he might have given her otherwise.

"Come on, let's leave," Rachel cut in, tugging on Kurt's hoodie sleeve. "We can go to Starbucks instead."

"Rachel," he said lowly. "I'm fine."

"What if you transition?" she hissed under her breath.

"I'm out in public. What does it matter if I transition here or on the sidewalk? Besides, it was your idea to get out me of the house."

"Well, I didn't think we'd run into—" She stopped herself, nervously glancing at Quinn.

Quinn pursed her mouth. "I get it," she snapped. "You all think I'm a cold, heartless bitch." She huffed. "Well, I'm _sorry_, Kurt. I'm sorry for respecting you enough to not throw you a pity party when you freak out over trouble at school. I'm sorry for believing that you're strong enough to pull yourself out of this. And, really, I'm sorry for—"

"Stop it," Finn snapped tersely, catching Quinn off-guard. He wasn't even paying attention to her, though, as he had turned to scrutinize Kurt instead. He quickly cast Rachel a pointed glance, who seemed to understand whatever unspoken message he'd sent her, and she nodded and began to push Quinn in the opposite direction.

"How about we go to the ladies' room?" she offered, a little too brightly.

Quinn shrugged her off, trying to figure out what was happening. Nothing had changed about Kurt that she could see, so she was confused by the way Finn and subsequently Rachel were acting. Then, upon a second look, she realized that there was something off about his expression. She couldn't quite pinpoint what the difference was, though she could definitely hazard a guess at the cause.

"Come on, let's go back to the car," Finn said quietly, standing between Kurt and Quinn.

The voice that came out of Kurt's throat next made Quinn flinch and take a step backwards, as much by his tone as what he said.

"I'd rather stay here and teach this cheap trailer-trash whore a fucking lesson."

"No," Finn responded immediately, and Quinn was stunned by the fact that he seemed to be taking Kurt's language perfectly in stride. "No, we're leaving. Right now. Come on." He grabbed Kurt's upper arm, but Kurt didn't budge, only meeting Finn's eyes with such a black look that Quinn was sure Finn's head would burst into flames.

"Take your hand off me, faggot," Kurt spat, and Rachel let out a tiny gasp, her hand clapping over her mouth.

"I'll let you go as soon as you're back in the car, and not before."

Kurt reached over with his other arm and seized Finn by the lapels. "You really want to make a go of this, asshole?" he growled, his face only six inches from Finn's. "I swear to God, I will beat your ass to fucking Timbuktu."

Quinn was so absorbed by the alarming behavior on Kurt's part that she almost didn't notice the Lima Bean manager approach them. "Listen, folks, this is a family-friendly establishment, so if you don't mind taking this conflict elsewhere—"

"Yeah, we're on our way," Finn said tightly. "Sorry. Craig, come _on_."

"Fuck you, dipshit," Kurt snarled. He turned to the manager. "And fuck you too. You might want to change the décor, 'cause it's fucking queer."

With that final observation, Kurt stomped out to the parking lot with Finn close on his heels. Rachel let out a long sigh. "I'll see you tomorrow," she said to Quinn, then hurried outside to follow them.

Quinn stood there for several minutes, speechless. No. There was no way. Kurt was acting out, but the problem had to be a lot deeper than just what had happened at school. But God, how deep did it have to go?


	22. Disproportions

_Disproportions  
><em>

Monday morning dawned cloudy and grey, which suited Blaine just fine. The green walls of his bedroom had felt cramped and stuffy all weekend, but he'd been too sullen to do anything other than work on his homework or play those mindless video games that he still had to return to Finn from last fall. Anything to keep his mind occupied with something other than the image of Kurt and Sebastian together, whether or not Kurt was himself.

"Are you all right, Bumble?" his mother asked him as he rummaged through the refrigerator in search of a breakfast that wouldn't make him nauseous.

"Mom, I wore a bumblebee costume for Halloween when I was two," he said, giving up on food and shutting the fridge. "Please stop calling me that."

"I'm sorry, I just…" she trailed off, fiddling with the belt of her fluffy pink bathrobe. "I've been feeling very disconnected from you lately."

Blaine scratched at his neck, carefully holding back all the things he wanted to tell her. He knew that if he did, it would only come back to bite him. Instead, he said the most commonly uttered lie in the history of the world.

"I'm fine."

His mother smiled. "Oh, I don't buy that for a second, Bu— Blaine." She wound a strand of hair around her finger, and Blaine noticed for the first time how exhausted she looked. "But you're an obstinate teenager now, so what am I going to do about it?"

She winked and wished him a good day at school, letting him head out to his car and somehow managing not to call him Bumble again.

After the somewhat long drive to McKinley, Blaine was grateful to step out of his car and walk across the already-packed parking lot, letting the freezing air cool his nerves. He was not looking forward to classes today, since everything now seemed either irritating or trivial and school definitely fell into both those categories.

As he approached the main entrance, he crossed paths with Puck, who was sauntering in with his backpack slung loosely over one shoulder.

"Hey, dude," Puck said, falling into step next to Blaine. For some reason, Blaine felt irked by the action, like Puck was deliberately invading his personal space bubble.

"Hi," Blaine responded tightly.

"You okay?"

Blaine frowned. "Why do you care?"

Puck squinted at him. "I need a reason to care about one of my boys?"

"I'm your _boy_?" Blaine huffed. "Please, you barely even know my name. I've never heard you call me anything other than 'Curly Hobbit.'"

"Yeah, and I call Mike 'The Rice King' and Artie 'Professor X'," Puck snapped.

"That's racist and condescending."

"Doesn't mean I don't know their names." Puck quickly moved in front of Blaine, stopping him in his tracks. "You know, I'm really starting to wonder if you even like Kurt at all."

"I'm dating him," Blaine replied dryly, beginning to feel very fed up with Puck's questions.

"You sure about that?" Puck challenged. "Have you even _talked_ to him since he went nuts in the choir room?"

Blaine's jaw muscle twitched. "Can you move out of my way?"

"Why?"

Letting out a low growl of irritation, Blaine moved to circle around Puck, but the larger boy sidestepped and blocked him a second time. "Let me by," Blaine said slowly.

"No."

"Why?!" Blaine cried, exasperated.

Puck glanced around the hallway as if to make sure there were no teachers within earshot (though, considering the sheer number of noisy teenagers crowding the halls, 'earshot' really just consisted of about a foot in any direction). "Come on," he said, grabbing Blaine by the shoulder and steering him down a side corridor.

Blaine dug his heels against the linoleum in an attempt to stop, but it was a lame attempt at best. "I have to go to class!"

"Not right now, you don't. We're skipping."

Finally, Blaine managed to pull himself out of Puck's grip and shove him in the chest. "I don't _want_ to skip!" he yelled, making several of the other students in the hall look over in confusion. "I want to go to class and feel like my life is _normal!_"

"Your life _is_ normal," Puck retorted loudly. "It's _Kurt _who's messed up – you're just an asshole."

"Oh, now _I'm_ the asshole?" Blaine spat. "I thought I was one of your 'boys'!"

"You are my boy, but Kurt's been my boy for a lot longer than you, so now _you_ are coming with _me_." Puck grabbed him again, and pulled him down the hall towards the other side of the building.

After about three straight minutes of pushing, shoving, struggling, and loud protests, Puck practically threw Blaine through the double doors to the weight-lifting room. The bell rang outside for first period, and Blaine immediately tried to leave again, only to have Puck shove him backwards.

"Puck, what the _hell_ do you want from me?! What are we doing in here?" he demanded.

Puck said nothing for a moment, only pulling a pair of boxing gloves off of a shelf in the corner and tossing them to Blaine. "I want you to go over there," he said, gesturing to the designated boxing area off to the side of the room, "and beat the crap out of a punching bag."

"_Really_, Puck?" Blaine cried, throwing his hands up. "_That's_ what you're making me skip class for?"

"Yeah."

"This is insane," Blaine said. "I have history, and I'm late." He tossed the gloves back to Puck, only to have them thrown straight back and smack him in the chest.

"You're not leaving until you hit me or the punching bag."

Blaine rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to hit you."

"Then hit the bag."

Several seconds ticked by in which Blaine did nothing but glare daggers at Puck, and Puck did nothing but wait with his arms crossed. Eventually, Blaine sighed, dropping his book bag on the floor and pulling his sweater off. "Fine," he snapped, yanking on the gloves and closing the Velcro straps with his teeth. "Let's get this over with."

He didn't miss the smug expression on Puck's face as he stalked toward the punching bags.

Blaine really did intend to only hit the bag a few times before grabbing his books and hightailing it to US History. He did. Unfortunately for him (because he seriously wanted to prove Puck wrong), as soon as he'd landed a few blows his arms seemed to develop a mind of their own, and they refused to stop. Annoyingly, Puck calmly took a seat on one of the benches a little ways away and watched as Blaine pummeled the bag, his strikes steadily growing more and more violent.

The worst part was Blaine wasn't even that upset. He had no right to be. Kurt hadn't cheated on him – he hadn't even _been_ there to do so. But why the _hell_ hadn't Kurt said anything about the whole _clusterfuck_ (he couldn't think of another word to describe it) taking place inside him until after Blaine had come face to face with it? Before he'd become Kurt's boyfriend, they'd been friends, and close friends at that. And wasn't this the kind of thing you shared with the people you trusted?

He hit the bag harder and harder as it very slowly dawned on him that maybe… maybe Kurt didn't trust him.

Eventually, Blaine's arms began to feel like they were made of lead, and he threw one last weak punch. He let his shoulders fall, breathing hard as he went over and sank onto the bench next to Puck. He was covered in sweat and his chest was heaving, but he was astonished to notice that he actually felt… better.

"You done?" Puck asked simply.

Blaine nodded, panting. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Good."

"How did you know that would work? Anyone else would've told me to just sing about it."

"You're _always_ singing." Puck shrugged, leaning back a little. "I was born pissed-off, dude. If you want to stop being mad, you've got to do something different than what you always do."

Blaine blinked, stunned by Puck's response. It was so simple that it made Blaine's head spin.

* * *

><p>During Monday's afternoon Warbler meeting, Sebastian was quiet. Oddly so. The other boys took notice very quickly – he was the captain, after all. Once Nick had finished reading the minutes from the previous Friday's meeting, Jeff raised his hand and spoke before Nick could move on to discussing song arrangements.<p>

"Excuse me, but before we go into that," Jeff started, a little nervously since he wasn't usually one to speak up. "I think we should talk with Sebastian."

Sebastian's head snapped up. "I'm sorry?"

"Please clarify," Nick said.

"Well, um, you've seemed really… off-balance all day," Jeff rushed, speaking directly to Sebastian this time.

"How so?"

"For example, this is the first time I've heard you talk since Friday."

Nick nodded. "Jeff has a solid point, Sebastian. You know we look out for our own here. So, what's the problem? Is there anything we can do?"

Sebastian sighed, pursing his mouth for a moment. "Last year, when Kurt was in attendance here…" he said slowly, carefully ignoring the glances exchanged between the other Warblers. They all knew about his pursuit of Blaine and the tense interactions with Kurt that resulted. "Did any of you notice anything strange about him?"

Nick frowned. "Strange? How so?"

"Behaviorally," Sebastian shrugged.

"Would you mind giving some context? Or examples?"

"How about multiple personalities?"

Every Warbler in the room fell completely silent, gaping at him. After a moment, Jeff finally spoke up again.

"Sebastian… are you implying that Kurt—?"

"Yes."

"What evidence do you have to back that up?" Nick inquired, his brow deeply furrowed.

"I've seen it."

The Warblers erupted into a clamor of astonished questions until Nick raised his voice to calm them down. Sebastian suddenly found himself missing the council's old gavel, even though he'd been the one who convinced the rest of them to get rid of the council in the first place.

Once the room had quieted again, Nick turned his attention back to Sebastian. "How did you find out about this?"

"I saw Kurt at Scandals on Friday," he said. "He was… different."

"How different is different?"

"His clothes, his hair, his voice, even the words he was using. Plus, he was smoking a cigarette."

Nick's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "Does… he have a twin?"

Sebastian gave him a look. "No, Nick, Kurt does not have a twin," he said, feigning patience.

"Well, what did you do?" This question came from Trent, who looked _far_ more concerned than any of the other boys in the room. Sebastian wasn't entirely sure why that was.

"I…" Sebastian faltered, wondering if he should lie and how he should say it if he chose to tell the truth.

Trent beat him to it, unfortunately. "Oh my god, you _slept_ _with him?!_"

Sebastian blinked. Once he got over the momentary shock of Trent somehow telepathically figuring out what had happened between him and Kurt, he exhaled heavily and admitted that Trent was right.

"_Why_ would you do that?!" Trent cried. "He's with Blaine! And he's sick! Oh, god, there are _so _many things wrong with this…"

"Look, I didn't know that Kurt was sick, okay?" Sebastian leaped to defend himself. "Granted, I should have picked up on the fact that there was something off, but I thought that they had broken up and he was trying to make Blaine jealous or something. I don't know."

"Which one of his alters was it?" Trent pressed. "It was Truman, wasn't it? He's the only one who smokes."

Sebastian's eyebrows snapped together in shock, and several of the other boys stared at Trent in confusion. "I… I don't know, he never said his name and he didn't correct me if I called him Kurt, but…" He paused, frowning at Trent, who was agitatedly chewing on his lip. "Wait a minute. You knew, didn't you?"

The room fell completely silent, waiting for Trent to answer.

Finally, Trent nodded, looking at the floor. "I, uh… Kurt was stressing out about his math exam last November, and I was helping him study, and he just… changed."

"I'm still _very_ unclear on this whole situation," Nick cut in. "I thought multiple personalities was just a horror movie thing."

Trent shook his head. "It's real," he said softly.

"Well, wait a second," Jeff piped up in bewilderment. "If Kurt's more than one person, then why didn't any of us notice?"

Trent sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. He was obviously very uncomfortable revealing whatever depths there were of the secret he and Kurt had shared. "After he changed, he just stayed in my room until he switched back, and he explained what had happened," Trent continued. "So, from then on, whenever he thought he might transition, he just stayed in my dorm room and I made sure that no one saw or heard him."

"Was this even legal?" Nick wanted to know. "I mean, this is starting to sound dangerous."

"At first, he wasn't going to be allowed admission to Dalton," Trent explained. "But because of his reasons for leaving McKinley, they made an exception for him so long as he was on heavy anti-psychotics while he was here. He had nowhere else to go, and there are _zero_ schools in Ohio for the mentally ill. Trust me, I helped him look." Trent let out a long sigh, sinking tiredly into one of the armchairs. "He didn't want anyone to know."

Sebastian felt slightly dizzy. "Well, it's not only the Warblers who know now," he said quietly.

Trent's eyes snapped up. "What are you talking about?"

"I saw Kurt change," Sebastian replied slowly. "But I didn't figure it out until I saw McKinley's gossip blog. The entire school knows. At this point, probably the entire _town_ knows."

Trent stared at him for a very long time.

After what felt like an hour, Jeff spoke again. "We have to do something," he said.

"Like what?" asked Nick. "I don't even know what we'd be trying to accomplish."

"There's nothing we _can_ do," said Trent. "It's completely out of our control."


	23. Humpty Dumpty

_Humpty Dumpty_

Tuesday afternoon found the Hudson-Hummels in the waiting room outside of Dr. Goldberg's office. Kurt was thankfully himself, though his fashion had been all but eradicated since he claimed that none of his wardrobe would go with what Eleanor had done to his hair, and besides that he was just too damn tired to plan outfits. Instead, he'd been wearing all the plainest articles of clothing he possessed – mostly stuff from Robbie's drawer in his bureau, and occasionally Truman's.

The past few days since he'd woken up to find himself in Sebastian's room had passed in not much more than white noise for Kurt. His transitions were steadily growing more and more frequent, and after Craig had attempted to attack Carole on Saturday morning everyone in Kurt's family had refrained from asking him about what had happened with Sebastian. Everyone – including him – was walking on eggshells.

The worst part was that Kurt had tried to call Blaine at least three times every day, and every time he was answered only by Blaine's voicemail. He could only guess that Blaine had either heard or figured out that he'd…

He didn't want to think about it. He'd let his alters handle that one for now.

Finally, Dr. Goldberg emerged from his office and called Kurt's name. Burt immediately stood up to go with him, but Goldberg flapped a hand at him and said he'd like to speak with Kurt alone for a few minutes, seeing as he was actually Kurt at the moment. Burt sat down with a grunt of slight irritation.

"So, Kurt," Dr. Goldberg said, sitting back in his armchair with his notebook at the ready. "How are things?"

"You want the short list or the long?" Kurt replied dryly.

Dr. Goldberg gave a professional, thin-lipped smile. "Why don't you sum up as best you can."

Kurt sighed, looking out the window at a couple of blue jays perched in the tree outside. "Well, Eleanor chopped my hair off, Truman had sex with a person I hate, and Craig tried to beat up my stepmother."

Dr. Goldberg scribbled in his notebook, the scratching of his pen the only sound in the room besides the buzzing radiator in the corner. "Anything else?" he asked a moment later.

Kurt's mouth twitched and he looked down.

"What is it?" the doctor prompted.

"I… I don't know if it's anything," Kurt said quietly. "I keep having these dreams that just feel _so_ real… I don't know, they're always slightly different, but it's the same kind of thing every time."

Dr. Goldberg's expression didn't quite change, but Kurt could see that his interest was suddenly peaked. "What are the details?" His pen moved faster.

Kurt scratched at his temple, trying to recall. "They're really hazy," he said. "I just remember that there's always this man there – I never see his face and I can't always hear him. All I know is that his name is Franklin."

Dr. Goldberg contemplated this for a few seconds. "And where are you in these dreams?"

"It's always in my old house, from when I was little. Before my mom died."

"No, I meant in relation to Franklin," the doctor clarified. "Are you in separate rooms?"

Kurt shook his head. "No. Sometimes he's carrying me—"

"Carrying you?" Dr. Goldberg repeated. "So you're young?"

Kurt nodded.

"Are you always touching?"

Another nod, this time a little bit hesitant. "Usually we are, yeah."

Dr. Goldberg's beard twitched as he pressed his lips together. "How are you touching?"

Inexplicably, Kurt suddenly felt defensive. The hairs on his arms stood on end. "I don't remember," he lied quickly.

Dr. Goldberg watched him for a moment, then clicked his pen shut and set his notebook aside. "Kurt, you seem like a strong person."

"If I were a strong person, I would not need seven extra personalities to help me deal with things," Kurt snapped, his guard still raised though he could not for the life of him figure out why.

"That's…sort of my point," Dr. Goldberg said slowly, clasping his hands. "What I'm getting at is that, even considering the… violent nature of your mother's death, I think you would've been able to cope with it using an absolute maximum of two alters, if any at all."

Kurt paused, feeling the nerves all over his body prickle in warning. And why did the doctor look like he was delivering bad news? "…If that's true, then why do I have a surplus of five?"

"Well, there is a reason. People with DID only have as many alters as they need."

"You haven't answered the question."

"I don't think that your mother's death is the only severe trauma you've experienced."

The words hung in the air for what felt like several minutes, though in reality it was probably only a few seconds.

"Sitting in my mother's splattered brains for five hours isn't enough?" Kurt's voice was flat, almost sounding like Robbie.

"Not for eight. Not for you."

"What does this have to do with my dreams?" Kurt demanded, his heart thudding against his ribcage (why was he feeling the urge to run away?).

Dr. Goldberg exhaled. "They don't sound like dreams," he replied, tapping his index finger and thumb together. "I believe what you're experiencing are flashbacks. Repressed memories."

"Of _what_?" Kurt felt an unexplained surge of anger in his chest, as if Eleanor was beating against his breastbone and trying to escape. "I only have these when I'm asleep."

"Which is when your consciousness steps back to make room for your subconsciousness, which is really where your entire problem is located," Dr. Goldberg countered. "When you're asleep, the boundaries between your alters tend to weaken, so it makes sense that some of their memories would leak through to you."

Kurt was growing more and more agitated, and he wished he knew why. "But memories of _what_?"

"Most likely sexual abuse."

Kurt felt like he was going to throw up. "That's insane."

"Frankly, Kurt, I've been meaning to ask you about this for some time," Dr. Goldberg admitted. "It's extremely uncommon to have DID without a history of some kind of abuse. And the fact that you're already beginning to have flashbacks is a _very_ good sign."

"_Good_?" Kurt cried. "How the _hell_ is that supposed to be good?!"

"Calm down, Kurt. Take a deep breath and sit back."

Kurt sat back, feeling anything but calm.

"Kurt, you want to get better, don't you?"

"Any sane person would."

"Well, the only way that you can become fully integrated and pull these pieces back together is if you know exactly what happened to you in the past," Dr. Goldberg said, sounding as if he were reading out of a textbook. "There are several paths you can take that will lead to healing, but each and every one of them will _require_ you to face those fears and memories."

"Let me get this straight," Kurt said, his voice hoarse. "Based on a few _very_ foggy dreams, you've come to the conclusion that whoever this Franklin guy was _abused_ me?"

"Yes."

"That's insane," Kurt repeated.

Dr. Goldberg sighed. "I'd like more than anything to be proven wrong here," he said. "But how else do you explain Zack's existence?"

Kurt's eyebrows snapped together. "What does Zack have to do with anything?"

"Alters tend to fall into one of three categories," Dr. Goldberg said, counting off on his fingers. "First, there's the primitive. We already talked about primitives when Schism emerged. Second, there are alters that are based on someone from the person's past or present life – this could be either an abuser or a protective figure, like a parent or an old friend. Even alters that have no apparent base in reality are often combinations of different people that you've known. And lastly, there are alters that are the person's past selves, frozen at the certain ages when the traumas occurred. It's rare that an alter can't be classified as one of those three."

Kurt stared at him. "Can you translate that into English?"

Dr. Goldberg's tongue clicked against his teeth. "You said that in the flashbacks, you were small enough for this Franklin person to carry. We already know that Tyler was brought into being by your mother's death. But Zack is only four – that's much younger, which indicates that your first severe trauma took place when _you_ were four."

"I wasn't abused!"

"How do you know?"

Kurt jaw clapped shut. His blood was roaring in his ears, and he was dizzy. He was about to argue, but he felt himself being shoved out of the way, and everything went black.

* * *

><p>Blaine had spent the rest of Monday in a haze, and then skipped class again on Tuesday morning (this time voluntarily, and without Puck) to have another boxing match with a punching bag. The rest of the day was less foggy than the previous, though he spent most of it wrapped up in his own thoughts of beating Sebastian up and what the hell he was supposed to do about Kurt.<p>

On the one hand, he was fully aware that he had _very_ strong feelings for Kurt – whether or not it was _love_ was still sort of up in the air, but that just had to do with the fact that they were eighteen, for God's sake, and what did they really know about love? He knew that the biggest problem right now was his own fear and inability to understand exactly what Kurt was going through, and he wasn't sure if _he_ could work through it (as selfish as it was). He was perfectly capable of admitting that he was the one who was actively doing something to damage this relationship, and it was only because he was too scared to do anything else. Santana had been right – he was the bad guy.

On the other hand, Kurt was _insane_.

It wasn't until halfway through his family's nightly awkwardly-silent dinner that he remembered the intimate conversation he and Kurt had had on the empty stage after the opening night of _West Side Story_ last October.

"_I want you to be proud to be with me_," he'd said.

His stomach twisted as he realized that now… Kurt probably wasn't the least bit proud.

Blaine lurched to his feet, startling his parents with the loud scrape of his chair. "Sorry, I…" he started. "I have to go."

Before either his mother or his father could protest, Blaine had grabbed his car keys from the rack by the door and practically run out to his sedan, revved the engine, and sped onto the street.

The entire drive to Kurt's house, he rehearsed what he would say.

"Kurt, I want to stay."

Too selfish-sounding.

"I'll stay, if you'll have me."

Too Jane Austen.

"I love you."

Too obvious.

His mind reeling, he eventually pulled off the highway and through the Lima outer-city limits, navigating the suburban streets by not much more than muscle memory.

As soon as he turned from Spencerville Road onto West Shore Drive, he saw the ambulance's flashing red lights.


	24. Where The Grickle Grass Grows

_Where The Grickle-Grass Grows  
><em>

Dinnertime at the Berry household was always noisy and often musically-centered, as Sam had come to learn in the recent months since Finn and Rachel had dragged him out of the dregs of Kentucky. He'd been hesitant at first – the prospect of living with _Rachel Freaking Berry_ had been terrifying and back in November he would _much_ rather have crammed himself onto the fold-out couch at Finn and Kurt's house – but within a week of settling in, he'd discovered that things in the Berry family were really quite mellow, for all their loud talking and spontaneous musical numbers. The routines that they all followed – whether on their own or as a family – were something that Sam had been grateful for in contrast to the constant worrying and hectic activity that was his own home life.

After Kurt had snapped in school, he'd been even more grateful for it. He'd honestly thought that the main reason he'd ended up living at Rachel's was that she was trying to get a strong male vocalist who was available to her at all times, and that she'd forced Finn into letting it happen with some petty bribe involving getting to second base or something. Once he found out about Kurt's… problem (he wasn't sure how else to refer to it), he'd realized that the only person stopping him from living with Finn was actually Finn.

Sam didn't know what might have happened if he'd actually moved in with the Hudson-Hummels, and if he was honest with himself, thinking about it scared him a little.

Of course, he'd never tell Rachel that. She'd bite his head off.

It was during Tuesday evening dinner that Rachel's phone went off in her pocket.

"Rachaela, you know we don't allow cell phones at the table," Hiram reprimanded her as he took a sip of his wine. "Not since your dad thought that answering a call from his Adonis of a masseuse during mealtime was acceptable."

"We've heard that story enough times already," Leroy cut in with a pointed grin. Sam chuckled through his mouthful of roast duck (which was _awesome_, because both her dads seriously knew how to cook). "Rachel, honey, please turn that off."

She smiled sheepishly and pulled it out of her skirt pocket, quickly checking the screen before standing up and taking it into the kitchen. She left it on the counter and returned to the table. "Sorry, I forgot I had it with me," she said, reaching for her glass of sparkling cider. "It was just Finn – he probably needs my help with homework or something. I'll call him back later."

"Sometimes I wonder whether you're his girlfriend or his tutor," Leroy remarked.

"Trust me, she's definitely his girlfriend," Sam said, raising his eyebrows at Rachel. She narrowed her eyes and lobbed her napkin at him, knowing perfectly well that he was referring to a very public make-out session between her and Finn in the middle of lunch that day.

Hiram waved a hand, grimacing. "Please don't tell me whatever it is I'm missing out on. I don't want to know."

Rachel's phone rang again in the kitchen, cutting through the laughter around the dining table. "Sorry," she said, again standing up. "I'll go set it on silent."

The dinner conversation continued for another five minutes before Sam's phone also rang from his jeans pocket.

"Samuel, really?" Hiram chided.

Sam shrugged apologetically and glanced at the screen, hesitating. "It's Finn," he said, not sure if he should ignore the call.

Rachel frowned. She didn't have to say that it was strange that Finn would call her a few times and then call Sam. Hiram and Leroy picked up on this, too, and Leroy was the one to give in and suggest that Sam answer it.

Sam hit the Answer button and was met with only the dial tone – Finn had hung up. A moment later, the phone buzzed and a text popped up.

_TELL RACHEL TO PICK UP HER PHONE._

Sam relayed the message to Rachel, who immediately jumped up and ran to snatch her cell off the counter. "Finn, what's going on?" she said in lieu of a greeting.

Sam and her dads watched as the worried expression slid off of Rachel's face and was replaced with sheer _terror_.

"…What?" Her voice was uncharacteristically small. Both Leroy and Hiram remained silent and tense – odd for them – and Sam could feel a prickling in the back of his head. Something was _extremely_ wrong. Finn wasn't the brightest crayon in the box, but he definitely wasn't one to panic, and the text had seemed pretty damn urgent.

"W-Well, is he okay?" Rachel stammered. "…Okay. Are you sure you don't want me there with you? …All right, but only if you— Yeah. Of course, I'll call Mercedes. And Finn? Tell him that I'll be there as soon as they say he's up for visitors. Okay. I love you too."

She hung up, and Sam could see that she was trying very hard not to break down into tears right then and there.

"What's going on?" Leroy asked when she didn't speak.

"Kurt…" she began, but her voice petered out and she had to restart. "Kurt tried…" She faltered again, her words hitching in her chest. "Oh my God," she said, burying her face in her hands.

Leroy barely managed to stand up and wrap his arms around her before she fell apart completely.

* * *

><p>It was <em>loud<em>, though Blaine couldn't tell if that was from the chatter of the EMTs or the incessant ringing in his ears. He'd leaped out of his car and _bolted_ up to the house, not caring that he'd parked more diagonally than parallel. Abruptly, a policeman standing by the porch steps caught him and pushed him back, calmly telling him to stay where he was.

"No, you – you don't understand—"

"Don't worry," the cop said. "The kid had a real close call, but he's going to be completely fine. Now, take a step back, please."

The officer's assurances didn't relieve Blaine nearly as much as they should have. A thousand other questions raced through his head – what happened and who did it and dear _God_ where was he? – but they were all shoved aside as the front door banged open and two EMTs slowly guided a stretcher through the almost-too-narrow doorframe. They carefully carried it down the porch steps toward the ambulance, passing by Blaine without so much as a glance.

Kurt was strapped down, his eyes closed and his head lolling to the side. The lower half of his face was obscured by the cup of an oxygen mask, and his skin had turned from a smooth pale to a deathly white, bordering on grey. Blaine felt the grass sway under his feet as he saw the flecks of blood staining Kurt's neck, though it was clear that his neck was unharmed. The blood must have come from somewhere else.

"Oh my God, _Blaine!_"

Blaine's head whipped round to see Carole standing on the porch, having followed the stretcher. Finn was behind her, his face stretched as he watched the EMTs load Kurt into the ambulance. The red lights pulsed against the outside walls of the house, the ambulance doors clunked shut, and Kurt disappeared from view.

Finally, the officer let him by and he bounded up the porch steps. "What's going on? What happened?" he rushed, too aware of the fact that Carole had been _sobbing_ not long before. Her face was red and puffy and her chin was still trembling.

"He tried to kill himself," Finn said lowly, sounding far calmer than Blaine thought he should be. "Well… Kurt didn't. Eleanor's tried crap like this before, but it's never been this… much."

"Wh-where's Burt?" Blaine stammered, because he knew that if Kurt's father were there at the moment, he'd have barreled through any boundaries that the EMTs had set up – violently if necessary – so that he could be in the back of the ambulance with Kurt.

"He was pitching in at the shop. I called him – he's on his way to the hospital and he'll meet us there," Finn answered, watching the ambulance pull out of the driveway. Its siren wailed to life, deafening everyone for a few moments until it disappeared from view down the street.

"I shouldn't have left him alone," Carole cried, her hands over her face.

Finn draped his arm around her shoulders, looking like he was about ready to punch through a wall. Blaine thought maybe Finn should skip class and pay a visit to the weight room with him. "Mom, it's okay," he said flatly, not really sounding like he was that interested in her blubbering, but maybe he was just in shock. Blaine noticed for the first time that Finn's clothes were spattered with blood as well, and the hand not holding Carole's shoulders was _covered_ in it. His knees both bore thick dark stains.

"No, it _isn't_," Carole was protesting through a fresh stream of tears. "I _knew_ I shouldn't have left him alone! I _knew_ it!"

"Is he going to be okay?" Blaine asked, still staring at the blood on Finn's shirt.

"That's what they're saying."

"Wh-what did he do?"

"Eleanor slit his wrists," Finn responded. Carole choked on a sob. "Really deep, too."

"Why would she do that?"

Finn shook his head. "I don't know. Usually if she hurts him, it's just to keep him in line. She really tried to kill him this time. It's weird."

"Maybe it wasn't Eleanor?" Blaine suggested, but he didn't know Kurt's alters as well as Finn did and he couldn't tell if the question was too invasive (he didn't know why it _would_ be, but something was nagging at the back of his mind to pull back).

Finn glared at him for a second. "It was her," he said simply, as if that cleared everything up. He sighed, pulling away from Carole. "I'm going to go clean up."

* * *

><p>It was another two days before Blaine was allowed to actually <em>visit<em> Kurt instead of waiting around uselessly in the lobby for updates on his condition. He knew that the hospital staff had had to give Kurt more than a few blood infusions before he'd been deemed stable enough to move out of the ICU, but it really didn't matter to Blaine if he wasn't able to be in the same room with Kurt and see it for himself.

Finally, after school on Friday, the nurses told Blaine he was permitted past the lobby, and he quickly bought some flowers from the hospital gift shop before approaching Kurt's ward. He knocked on the door and poked his head in to find Burt sitting by the bed, reading _The Lorax _aloud to Kurt.

"Hi," he said hesitantly. "Can I… Can I come in?"

Burt frowned at him for a moment, then nodded. Blaine placed the flowers on the windowsill as Kurt's father turned back to his reading.

"_He was shortish, and oldish, and brownish, and mossy,_" Burt recited. "_And he spoke with a voice that was sharpish and bossy…_"

Blaine leaned back against the wall as the story continued, not really paying attention to any of the words and instead studying Kurt. It was obvious that Kurt wasn't present at the moment, and whether that was from stress or just sheer exhaustion was unclear. Blaine was fairly sure that it was Tyler peering out through Kurt's eyes, since the world-weary expression weighing down on Kurt's face didn't seem like something that Zack would display. The hospital gown didn't flatter Kurt's skin tone, though the loss of blood hadn't helped either. An IV needle was attached to a spot just above his collarbone, since his forearms were tightly bandaged all the way up to the elbow. Blaine noticed that Kurt's fingers were shaking ever so slightly.

"_Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing's going to get better. It's not._"

Blaine swallowed and hoped that he'd only imagined the pointed tone to Burt's voice.

A few minutes later, the book closed and Burt stood up, ruffling Kurt's hair. "I'm going to go get a cup of coffee," he said. "You want something?"

Kurt shook his head wordlessly, and Burt turned his attention to Blaine.

"Listen to me, Blaine," he said under his breath. "Kurt's been dealing with some pretty heavy stuff the last few days, and I'm not just talking about what Eleanor did to him to put him in here. So, you know… be careful what you say to him."

Blaine nodded quickly, easily picking up on the silent threat beneath Burt's words.

Once Burt had left, Blaine cautiously took a seat next to Kurt. "Tyler, right?" he said. Just to be sure.

Kurt nodded.

"They didn't let you have Raleigh in here?"

"He got covered in blood," Kurt said, speaking for the first time. "Carole's washing him."

"Oh."

Kurt was lying on his side, curled underneath the thin hospital blankets. He looked cold. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you."

"Why?"

Blaine paused, not really sure of how to respond. He couldn't exactly say _because I love you_, since Kurt was technically eight years old at the moment and that would be weird on _so_ many levels, and he couldn't say _because I'm your friend_ because Tyler barely knew him. "I just…" he faltered. "I want to be here for you."

Kurt didn't respond for a long time, and even though his eyes were open Blaine had to wonder if he had fallen into a sort of half-sleep. Eventually, Kurt spoke again, though it was flat-sounding and had nothing to do with the situation at all.

"Kurt says you sing."

"Uh, yeah."

There was another pause, but this one was shorter and less tense.

"Can you sing to me?" Kurt requested.

Blaine swallowed. He wasn't in the mood at _all_, but he did tell Kurt that he wanted to be there for him. "Okay," he replied. "What song?"

Kurt shrugged, studying the edge of the blanket. "You pick."

Blaine took a deep breath, trying to think. He settled on a shortish lullaby he'd heard a while ago, though he'd never actually sung it before. He scooted his chair closer to the bed.

"_This was the center of the world for me once,_" he sang lowly, "_where I saw 'I love you' all over the place. That was where the Stones played once, and these are the bricks that shattered my heart…_

"_This is the place where I felt like the world's tallest self-supporting tower… At least for a little while anyway._"

Kurt's expression didn't change as the song progressed, and Blaine wasn't sure if that was a relief or a cause for more concern.

"_Hiding out in the subway system_," he continued. "_Hanging out in the library system. You made me feel like a harbor, and you made me feel like a fortress. This is the place where I felt like the world's tallest self-supporting tower… or maybe number two. At least for a little while anyway…_"

The lullaby ended and Blaine sat there in silence, his nerves crackling in his fingertips.

"That was pretty," Kurt said.

Blaine was about to say 'Thanks, Tyler', but then he blinked in surprise. It had not been Tyler's voice. "Kurt?"

"Hi, Blaine." Kurt pushed himself up, propping his back against his pillows and finally looking Blaine in the eye.

"How are you?" Blaine asked lamely. He was nervous; Kurt was watching him with a little too much wariness.

Kurt shrugged. "I hate hospitals." He scratched first at the gauze wrapped around his left forearm, then his right. "Ugh, these are starting to smell," he said, his nose wrinkling.

"I'll call the nurse," Blaine said, pressing the red button on the side of Kurt's bed.

Neither of them said anything as they waited for someone from the nurse's station to show up. Finally, a chubby young woman in purple scrubs walked in with a cherubic smile and at Kurt's request set about changing the bandages.

Blaine tried not to flinch when he saw the deep, scabbed-over gouges running lengthwise from Kurt's wrists almost to his elbows.

The baby-faced nurse left a few minutes later and the air stretched thinly between the walls of the room.

"Blaine, I need to tell you something," Kurt said, sounding like he was forcing himself to speak.

"I need to talk to you, too," Blaine replied, rushing his words because he had a feeling that if he didn't get it out now, he never would. "Can… can I go first?"

Kurt nodded, his expression skeptical.

"Kurt, I've… I've done a lot of thinking," Blaine started, twisting his fingers together in his lap, "and it's taken me awhile, but… we agreed, no matter what, right? I love you, and I can't exactly say I don't care that you have this… problem, but I want to help you with it, and I want to be there for you." He was glad to hear that his voice was gaining confidence as he went, which made him more certain that he was doing the right thing.

"Blaine…"

"No, let me finish. I love you. That won't change, even if your alters think otherwise." Blaine reached forward and wrapped his hand around Kurt's fingers, squeezing tightly.

"Blaine."

"What?"

"I can't be with you."

Blaine blinked, his mind skidding to a halt. "Wh-what are you talking about?" he stuttered, not sure if he _couldn't_ comprehend what Kurt was saying or if he was making a choice not to.

"I'm sorry, but…" Kurt shook his head and pulled his hand out of Blaine's grasp. "I can't live like this."

Blaine felt his heart plummet at the thought that Kurt might actually agree with what Eleanor had done to him. "No – no, that's what I'm here to help you with, right? I've done research – there's some specialists in Boston and with some work you could get better in a couple of years—"

"Blaine, stop!"

The command was so abrupt that Blaine jumped.

"That's not what I meant. I meant, I can't live like this… with you."

"I don't understand."

Kurt chewed on his lip, looking down at his hands like he was trying to figure out how to express something that wasn't quite defined in the dictionary. "There's a reason that my alters think you're not good for me. As much as I care for you and as much as I absolutely hate to admit it, they _are_ parts of me. They're built from _me_. So, I can really only come to the conclusion that _I_ think you're not good for me. And it took a long time for me to figure out why that was."

Blaine shook his head again. "I-I don't get it. What are you saying? I thought you said that it was up to me if I wanted to leave."

"It _was_ up to you. For a little while. I gave you more than enough time, and you took _way_ too long to give me an answer. That wasn't fair. I can't be with someone who thinks it's okay to do that."

Blaine sat back in his chair, winded. His nerves were crackling and he couldn't decide if he was angry or just scared, and if he was, what he was scared about. "Kurt, to be _fair_, the fact that you bring seven extra wheels into this relationship as a package deal is kind of a lot to absorb! That takes a long time to be okay with!"

"I never said you had to be okay with it," Kurt countered evenly, his eyes harder than Blaine remembered. "You just had to decide to leave or stay. That's it. And this is not a relationship any more."

"Kurt, you – you've been through a lot lately," Blaine insisted. He was beginning to grasp at straws and he knew it. "This isn't really a good time to make a rash decision, don't you think?"

"It's not rash," Kurt argued. "I've been planning this for a week. You just haven't bothered to pick up your damn phone."

And just like that, the room was completely silent, and Blaine understood that the gavel had struck. He had no more excuses or questions or straws he could grasp.

Standing up slowly, feeling like his limbs were made of lead, Blaine moved towards the door. As he reached for the doorknob, he stopped and turned around.

"Wait," he said, his forehead creasing in thought. "It wasn't Eleanor. She... she didn't try to kill you, did she?"

Kurt watched him, his eyes covered in a film.

"It was you."

The fact that Kurt looked away instead of speaking was more than enough confirmation, and Blaine wanted to scream. "Kurt, _why_ would you—?"

"Please leave," Kurt interrupted, his voice cracked. He refused to look Blaine in the eye. "Just… go _away_."

Everything that Blaine wanted to say was bottlenecking in his head and he couldn't make any of his thoughts follow any sort of coherent sequence, so he did the only thing he could. He did what Kurt said, and closed the door behind him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The song used in this chapter is "_Concrete Heart_" by the Great Lake Swimmers.**


	25. Can You Stand On Your Head?

_Can You Stand On Your Head?_

For all that Robbie inhabited Kurt's body twenty-four-seven, he really didn't understand Kurt very much. He'd been dealing with the cramped space in Kurt's head for years, sometimes having conversations with him while Eleanor or Craig were in control and Kurt and Robbie didn't really have a choice but to sit back and wait. Right now, Eleanor was pissed and Robbie had taken over the body for no other reason than to stop her from doing anything she might regret. After all, they were in a hospital, and hospitals were busy and easy to get lost in and had a _lot_ of things that could be potentially harmful.

The nursing staff on this floor had explained to Kurt and Robbie individually that cuts this deep took months to fully heal, and Kurt would always have the scars to show for it. When Kurt didn't, Robbie asked why his hands were shaking, and a nurse told him that the nerves had been cut pretty badly and it would take even longer than the actual wounds to repair themselves.

Kurt was hiding, and that irked Robbie, but Kurt _was_ his own person (no matter how big the stack of evidence against him was) and so Robbie grumblingly took the reins and sat through visits from Burt and Carole and Finn and several of the other kids from Kurt's school. He was protecting Kurt so that he could protect the body. He wanted to live, damn it.

When Kurt wasn't there, Robbie spent the majority of his energy pushing Eleanor and Craig back into their compartments. Having either of them around would do absolutely no one any good, and he was fairly sure that Craig's intent was to hurt the body since Robbie had heard violent mutterings and oaths from that part of Kurt's mind. Aside from the occasional shriek of protest as he suppressed her, Robbie heard nothing from Eleanor for days.

It was during a visit from one of Kurt's school friends that he became too emotionally stressed and Robbie stepped up to take the wheel, letting Kurt breathe with relief in the back of his own head. It had been a while since he and Kurt had been awake at the same time, and it was a strange feeling for Robbie to experience, even though Kurt still had no control over what his body was doing. He was still awake. He was still _there_, taking up space.

Kurt's friend noticed that he'd changed and had set about nervously tidying up the windowsill, which at this point was cluttered with flowers and cards, and shakily humming under her breath as she worked. Robbie had seen this girl only once before, when he'd emerged during some sort of music class and somehow managed to _not_ make it obvious that he wasn't Kurt.

"What's your name?" he asked, digging halfheartedly at the watery hospital jello. The only reason he was eating right now was that he needed the nurses to believe that Kurt was okay enough to go home, and then he could get back to his old dietary routine.

The girl turned around in confusion at the question, her brown eyes wide and her mouth set in a very straight line. Robbie felt Kurt flinch.

"Um," she said, still staring at him in uncertainty. Robbie was used to this kind of response, though.

"Um?" he echoed distastefully. "You're not making an _Alice In Wonderland_ reference, are you? 'Um from Umbridge'?"

_Be nice_, Kurt ordered.

_I'm always nice._

_Please. You're a pit bull._

"No, of course not," the girl said, oblivious to Robbie's inner conversation. She sighed and sank back into the chair by the bed. "It's Rachel." She fiddled with the charm bracelet on her wrist. "I'm sorry, I'm just… this is very strange."

_Can you ask her how Mercedes is doing?_ Kurt requested.

Robbie relayed Kurt's question to Rachel, and her mouth fell open.

"He's – Kurt's _awake_ right now?" she whispered. "Can he hear me?"

"What he _can't_ hear is whether or not Mercedes is okay," Robbie told her dryly. "Why he wants to know about a car is beyond me."

Kurt huffed in the background. _Mercedes is not— Never mind._

Rachel swallowed, blinking back tears, and Robbie seriously hoped that she wouldn't break down crying because he really didn't want to put up with that. "Sh-She, uh…" Rachel started, looking down at her hands as she twisted her fingers together. "I don't think she's handling it well."

Robbie rolled his eyes. "Well, it's Kurt who's in the hospital, not this Mercedes person."

"She knows that," Rachel said, her tone abruptly forceful. "But she's your best friend, and—"

"No, she isn't." Robbie dropped the now-empty jello cup onto his tray, feeling disgusting as the cherry-flavored slop was dissolving in his stomach.

_Robbie_, Kurt warned.

Rather than argue back, Rachel simply clamped her lips shut and remained silent for a long time. It was quiet enough to hear the steady _drip… drip… drip… _of the AB-positive trickling into the IV tube attached to Kurt's collarbone.

Robbie wasn't all that concerned with keeping Rachel happy – or at least not terrified – so he stood up to take a leak, dragging his IV pole with him. He didn't bother to close the bathroom door, and he was sure that Rachel was blushing beet red and deliberately turning away, but, again – not his problem.

_Do you really have to shove your differences in her face?_ Kurt asked.

Robbie didn't answer him, because Kurt knew exactly why Robbie strained to be such a polar opposite.

On his way back to bed, Craig suddenly surged against the walls keeping him contained, and it _hurt_.

"Shit," Robbie hissed through his teeth, staggering and using the IV pole for support (which wasn't very smart, considering the fact that it was on wheels, but he was still upright). He put a hand to his head, where the pain was already beginning to fade – he'd managed to push Craig back again, but the space surrounding the compartment still dully ached.

Rachel had lurched to her feet and come over, clearly with the original intent of putting her arms around him, but she held herself in check an arm's length away. Peering at him with an odd blend of confusion, worry, and fascination, she asked him if he was all right.

Robbie didn't know her well enough to deliver an honest answer, so he told her he was fine and climbed back into bed and waited for her to leave.

* * *

><p>Because of the severity of the attempt on himself, Kurt was kept for longer than seventy-two hours. The doctors wouldn't give him a definite deadline for his release, and the head of the psych ward upstairs made time to visit him personally. The man had assured Kurt that it was just a friendly check-up, but Kurt could feel him <em>studying<em> and _evaluating_, and that made his teeth grit and he had to _work_ to keep Craig locked down.

His dad almost continuously ranted about how he wished Eleanor had a body of her own so that he could kick the crap out of it for hurting his son. Kurt only shrank and turned away each time Burt brought it up. He hadn't mustered up the courage to admit to his father that Eleanor had actually done nothing to him (this time), but Burt hadn't exactly thought to ask, either.

Carole was constantly bustling around him – adjusting the blankets, making sure he ate, checking the bandages, talking to the doctors, and anything else that presented itself to her. Finn, on the other hand, had seemed to be silently fuming from the moment Kurt had woken up on Wednesday morning. Kurt wanted to speak to him, but he could tell that whatever was on Finn's mind, he didn't want to say in front of Burt or his mom, so Kurt was waiting for the right moment.

Dr. Goldberg stopped by on Friday afternoon, carrying a teddy bear from the hospital gift shop. "I thought Zack or Tyler might like this," he said, placing it on the foot of the bed. It was brown and fluffy and it wasn't Raleigh, so Kurt knew that Tyler wouldn't touch him, and Zack had always preferred Hot Wheels to animals.

"How are you doing?"

"I'm not really ready to have a discussion, if that's what you mean," Kurt replied.

"Okay," Dr. Goldberg nodded, bracing his hands against the plastic footboard. "But we do need to discuss it at some point."

"We are not in your office."

Dr. Goldberg clicked his tongue against his teeth. "You're right. I'll talk to you at your next appointment. Hope to see you there."

Later that day, when Burt had gone to the cafeteria to get coffee and Carole had been forced into an extra shift at work, Kurt seized the chance to talk to Finn. Finn was sitting quietly in the corner, flipping through the _Men's Health _and NASCAR magazines that he'd smuggled from the waiting area by the nurse's station, and he had said very little for the past three days.

"Finn, why aren't you talking to me?" Kurt asked, figuring it would be better to start bluntly. Finn had never been one for subtlety.

Barely glancing up from his magazine, Finn responded that he had been talking, but it was far too flatly spoken to be believable.

"Finn, would it kill you to look at me?"

"Would it kill _you_?"

Kurt's words caught in his throat. Finn was still turning the pages of _Sports Illustrated_ like he hadn't said anything.

"What do you mean?" Kurt forced himself to say. His voice sounded wobbly and not like himself at all.

Finn's magazine clapped shut and he set it aside, his jaw tense. "Kurt, I thought you were dead," he said. His tone was still flat, but he was glaring at Kurt with more rage than Kurt had previously thought possible.

Kurt didn't know what Finn wanted him to say, so he didn't say anything.

Finn raked his fingers through his hair (which was already sticking up in all directions) and continued. "Do you have _any_ idea what that was like?" he demanded. "To walk in and see you like that?"

"Finn, I—"

"I thought you were _dead_."

The blood drained from Kurt's face as he realized that Finn's eyes were threatening to spill over. "I…" he faltered. "I don't know what you want me to—"

Finn interrupted, his voice now graveled and forced. "I want you to tell me what the _hell_ you were thinking."

Kurt swallowed. "Finn, I wasn't _there_—"

Finn cut him off a second time. "I was covered in _your_ blood, Kurt. It took me a half an hour to clean it off, and Mom can't get the stains out of the carpet in the hallway and we're going to have to live with them now, and—" Finn paused to sniff and pull at his hair again. "Every time I walk upstairs, I'll be reminded of that."

Kurt took a long, deep breath, feeling Robbie tug at the reins. He pushed Robbie back, though. He was going to handle this himself, damn it.

"Tell me what the _hell_ you expect me to do," Finn said. He sounded tired. "'Cause I really don't know. And if this was because of Eleanor or Craig or whoever, _I don't care._ I _won't_ go through that again. You tell the people inside your head that they might not be my brother, but _you_ are. And this is not what I signed up for."

Kurt stared at Finn for a long time, watching him watch the floor. Finally, Kurt mustered up the courage to say, "Finn, I'm sorry, okay? I'm _so_ sorry. But I'm not in control of myself, and I _need_ you to help me with—"

"I'm _sick_ of helping you!" Finn snapped, and Kurt flinched. "I've _been_ helping you, and all I've been able to get out of it is abuse and _this!_" He was on his feet now, gesturing wildly at Kurt and his bandaged arms.

"Finn, these people… they're not _me_—"

"_I don't care!_" Finn shouted. "You're _insane_!"

Finn turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him and leaving Kurt feeling like he'd been sliced in half.


	26. Ravens And Writing Desks

_Ravens And Writing Desks  
><em>

"_Code Grey, four fifty-seven. Code Grey, four fifty-seven._"

The words from the hospital's PA system earlier that afternoon echoed in Burt's mind as he sat in Kurt's ward, coffee in hand and eyes unfocused. It had been hours since Kurt had been sedated, but Burt was still wide awake despite the fact that it was nearly midnight. He'd come back from the cafeteria around five to find Kurt screaming at the nurses, his hospital gown stained with blood after he'd torn out his IV. He'd been hitting and spitting and showing _no_ signs of calming down until two male nurses were able to wrestle him to the floor and stick a needle in his thigh, leaving Burt with absolutely no explanation for what had prompted it.

Burt had sent Finn and Carole home at eight, and he was tired too but he couldn't allow his brain to realize it just yet. Not until Kurt was home and all the knives and scissors had been locked up. He didn't want Eleanor to get inspired again.

He'd been exhausted for _years_. A few more days wasn't going to kill him.

Of course, he'd been telling himself that ever since Kurt was eight years old.

Looking at Kurt now, it was hard to believe that the kid ever _was_ eight years old. He'd lost weight (most likely thanks to Robbie), and he looked stretched and worn even in sleep. His buzzed haircut gave him at least ten extra years, and the pallid tone to his skin (since he hadn't quite regained all the blood he'd lost) accented the sharper angles of his face. Kurt twitched in his sleep, which was beginning to look more like actual sleep rather than something drug-induced, and rolled over, facing away.

Burt leaned his head back against the wall, his eyelids scraping against his corneas, and there was an odd rift in time, like a scratched DVD skipping ahead. Burt was sitting up with a stiff neck and a stiff back, and the morning sunlight was streaming in through the windows. He wondered if this was what Kurt experienced every time he transitioned back into himself.

"You snore. A lot."

Burt noticed that Kurt was awake, sitting up, and staring at him. "Yeah, well, nothing I can do about that," he replied, massaging his sore neck. "So, who are you now?" Usually Burt could immediately tell just from Kurt's facial expression, but he wasn't fully awake yet and somehow he felt more exhausted than he had before he'd fallen asleep.

"Robbie."

"Kurt still upset?"

"Yep."

"Have you had breakfast?"

Kurt shrugged, grimacing. "I choked down half a roll. And no, you're not gonna get me to eat anything more. It's not even good food." He made a face and turned his attention back to the book propped up in his lap.

"What are you reading?" Burt asked through a yawn as he stretched out his arms.

"Some crap that one of the nurses gave me. She said she couldn't finish it, and I can tell exactly why." Kurt rolled his eyes and snapped the book shut, tossing it into the trashcan by the bed. He sat back, glaring boredly out the window. "So, are there any more annoying friends coming to visit today?"

"Rachel said she might drop by again."

Kurt made a face again. "Oh, God, not her. She makes me twitch."

Burt surprised himself by chuckling. "Yeah, Rachel's a piece of work," he agreed. "But she loves Kurt, I know that much."

Kurt shrugged. "Who loves Kurt and who doesn't isn't really a concern of mine."

Burt sighed. He'd heard Kurt's alters speak callously about Kurt and the people surrounding him so often that he wasn't even sure it bothered him any more. He supposed it should, though.

"Robbie, can I ask you something?"

Kurt was still looking out the window, but he gave a noncommittal shrug, which Burt took as a yes.

"When Eleanor came out yesterday," Burt said slowly, a little nervous of what the answer might be. "…What was it for? What made her come out?"

"Who knows why the fuck Eleanor does what she does," Kurt snapped.

Burt's mouth twitched. The brusque statement had sounded a lot more defensive than his question should've warranted, so he opened his mouth to try to coax Robbie into answering honestly, but Kurt spoke again.

"Don't listen to Robbie, he doesn't know anything."

Burt stopped short, caught off-guard by the fact that Eleanor had emerged without him seeing the switch. Kurt slouched down against the stack of pillows, his arms crossed tightly. He was watching his father with what could only be described as bitter disdain.

"He's protecting the wrong person," Kurt spat, almost looking like he was talking to himself.

Burt was about to repeat his question previously directed at Robbie, but Kurt's statement made his words catch in his throat. "Wait… Robbie is?"

"He's always mixed up," Kurt said, rolling his eyes. "Got the wrong ideas."

"What… what do you mean?"

"Shut the _fuck_ up!" Robbie's voice suddenly snarled. Kurt's head whipped to the side, almost like someone was pulling it. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about!"

Burt flinched. He'd never seen Kurt switch this rapidly, and it couldn't be a good sign.

Eleanor returned immediately, nearly yelling, "I'm not going to be blamed for all of Kurt's shit any more!"

Burt lurched to his feet and sat on the bed by Kurt's feet, grabbing both of Kurt's hands. They had curled into fists as Kurt's brain conflicted with itself. "Eleanor, shh," Burt said, as calmly as he could. "Look at me."

Kurt didn't seem to hear him, his eyes squeezing shut and his neck tensing. His breath had quickened.

"Eleanor, tell me what's going on," Burt pressed.

"You _always_ protect him!" Kurt cried, his hands clenching under Burt's fingers. Somehow, Burt didn't think that Kurt was talking to him. "You always protect him and you _shouldn't!_"

"Says the girl who fucking tried to kill him!" Robbie's voice growled back. "We're in here because of _you!_"

"_I didn't do anything!_" Eleanor screamed, yanking Kurt's hands away from Burt. "Why are you defending him? He tried to kill you! He tried to kill _all_ of us, and you _know_ it!"

Kurt gripped his head, his spine curled over and his face twisted in pain. Burt felt absolutely helpless. "Eleanor, I need to talk to Kurt," he said, his blood roaring in his ears.

Neither Eleanor nor Robbie responded, and Kurt stayed still, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his head.

"Is he okay?"

Burt turned around to see that Finn was standing in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. "I don't know," Burt replied. He frowned. "Aren't you supposed to be in school?"

"It's Saturday," Finn mumbled.

Burt had been so preoccupied and had only left the hospital to go home and shower, so he'd completely lost track of what day of the week it was. He knew he needed to get back to work – after all, he wasn't just a mechanic any more – but for now, his assistant at the office was covering for him.

He sighed, relieved that Finn had shown up. As much as Burt wanted to be the one that Kurt would run to every time he needed an anchor, Finn seemed to be the only person who (somewhat) consistently had the grounding effect that Kurt needed. And Kurt desperately needed it right now.

Finn edged closer to the bed, watching Kurt warily. "So, what's going on? Why's he like this?"

Burt exhaled slowly. "He hasn't been able to tell me. Maybe you'll have better luck?"

Finn hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "I don't know if…" He shook his head. "Never mind." Swallowing, Finn reached out towards Kurt, about to put a hand on his shoulder.

Before Burt could really process what was happening, Kurt uncurled his body and lunged at Finn. Finn yelped and leaped back, a hand to his face. Burt quickly stood up and pushed Kurt back, gripping him by the shoulders. "You okay?" he said to Finn.

"Yeah," Finn breathed, rubbing his cheek. "He just scratched me is all."

"_FUCK YOU!_" Kurt screamed at Finn, thrashing against Burt's arms.

Burt held him in place, knowing that Eleanor's rage was misplaced, as always.


	27. Waiting For The Good Humor Man

**A/N: To those of you who have left reviews containing a direct question that you'd like me to answer (yes, Sunday Morning On A Saturday, I'm speaking to you ;P) – if your PM feature is disabled, then we have a failure of communication. Please allow private messages if you want me to answer questions, because I will not answer them publicly.**

* * *

><p><em>Waiting For The Good Humor Man<em>

This was the day. He knew it.

Dave wasn't confident in many things, but this he knew for a fact. He'd been mulling over it for months – ever since late October – and scrutinizing every little detail that could possibly go wrong. He had it down. The plan was to continuously show Kurt blatant affection, without letting him know that it was Dave, and then the big identity reveal on Valentine's Day next week would be the final piece that would fall into place, the piece that would make Kurt believe without a shred of doubt that Dave had changed.

The only variable in this plan was that Kurt still might say no.

And he'd have every right to – Dave knew that. He was fully aware of how badly he'd treated Kurt the previous year. He just hoped he'd done enough since then to sway Kurt's opinion.

He was reasonably sure that Kurt and Blake or Barney or whatever his name was were not an item any more. Dave wasn't _that_ close to Kurt, but he liked to think that they had a good enough relationship for him to know that Kurt was not the kind of person who would cheat, and for him to be able to tell that whatever had gone down between Kurt and Sebastian was nothing more than a rebound, if that.

Plus, Sebastian was an ass, so rebound or not, it would never last.

Dave's heart was thumping solidly in his chest as he shuffled along McKinley's empty corridors – it was Monday afternoon and the students and teachers that were still on the campus were wrapped up in after school activities, and it would be an hour or so before the activities let out. Plenty of time to get in and get out.

Approaching the wall where Kurt's locker was located (yeah, he was a stalker), he pulled the card in its red enveloped out of his big sweatshirt pocket, making sure it wasn't too wrinkled. He stopped in front of the locker, suddenly feeling like he needed to punch something as he saw the graffiti on the door. Messy scribbles laced with _fag_s and _queer_s and _fairy_s that Dave knew, if it were this time last year, he would've written himself.

Clenching his jaw, he tried to ignore the scrawls as he reached up and slid the envelope through the slats at the top of the door. He blew a slow breath out through his nose. No going back now.

The quiet noise of the envelope hitting the floor of the locker stopped him from leaving, though. He couldn't quite figure out why, but it sounded wrong. It sounded… empty. Frowning, Dave grabbed the door handle and tugged, almost startled when it swung open easily, banging back against the adjacent lockers.

The red envelope was the only thing inside, lying by itself on the dusty aluminum floor.

* * *

><p>At home, Dave put off his homework and logged onto Facebook, clicking on Kurt's profile and scrolling down his timeline to see when the last post had been updated.<p>

It was a complaint about his stepbrother's cooking, posted _January 10th, 2012, 4:52 p.m._

Dave's eyebrows snapped together. Today was February sixth. Kurt was the kind of person who posted at least three statuses a day. Why hadn't he updated in almost a month? Maybe he'd been too upset over his breakup with Blake/Benjamin/Beetlejuice to be active online?

Seeing that Santana (the only other New Directions member who'd been willing to add him) was logged on, he clicked her name and sent her an instant message.

_ hey does kurt still go to mckinley? or did he go back to dalton?_

He was relieved that Santana replied almost immediately, but the relief quickly disappeared at her response.

_no, he's in the hospital. apparently you're out of the loop._

Dave swallowed, his fingers rapidly tapping the keys. _what happened? did he get beat up or something?_

_no_

There was a long pause as Dave waited for Santana to elaborate, and he was about to push her for more information when another message popped up.

_he tried to opt out_

Dave wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but he had an idea. His stomach twisted in his gut.

_are you serious?_ he typed.

_yeah_

_where is he? lima memorial?_

_st. rita's on west market street_

Dave grabbed his coat from where he'd tossed it on the foot of his bed, but his computer blipped again with another message.

_i don't think you should see him_

He leaned over his desk to send his reply. _why, cause i used to push him around?_

_yes_

_i'm going anyway. he can tell me to leave if he wants to_

* * *

><p>Dave pushed through the front entrance to St. Rita's behavioral health wing, brushing the snow out of his hair and off his shoulders as he walked up to the front desk. He waited in line for ten minutes before one of the receiving nurses called him over and asked what he needed.<p>

"I'm looking for Kurt Hummel," he said, spelling out Kurt's last name for her to plug into the system.

"He's on the fourth floor, room fifty-seven," she said with a sugary smile. "Visiting hours are over at eight-thirty, and the elevators are over there."

Dave thanked her and strode over to the elevators, pressing the fourth-floor button once he was inside and half-listening to the crappy music on the speakers as the elevator carried him upwards.

The fourth floor wasn't very busy, and it seemed like there was only a handful of doctors and nurses on duty, so Dave hoped that whatever had prompted Kurt to hurt himself wasn't _that_ serious.

The door to room fifty-seven was closed, and he hesitated before knocking. There was no answer from the other side, so he turned the doorknob and pulled it open, not quite sure if he had the right room.

"…Can I help you?"

Dave blinked. The person sitting up in the bed with a book on his lap was definitely Kurt (he thought). His hair was buzzed short (which wasn't _too_ much of a shock, since Dave had already seen it that night at Scandals), his skin was paler than it should be, his facial expression was hard and (if Dave wasn't mistaken) more than a little annoyed, and his arms were bandaged up to his elbows, but it was Kurt.

"If you want me to leave, just say so," Dave said quickly.

Kurt _snorted_. "Yeah, I want you to leave. I think you've got the wrong room."

Dave stopped short, not sure how he was supposed to respond to that. "Um…"

"Wait, I know you," Kurt said, squinting at him. "You're that asshole who was shoving Kurt around last year, aren't you?"

Dave blinked again. "Um, what?"

"Hate to break it to you, Tubs, but Kurt's not here right now," Kurt said, and Dave realized for the first time that Kurt's voice was off – too high. Kurt was giving him an odd smile that didn't quite fit on his face, and the expression made the hairs on the back of Dave's neck stand up.

"Whatthehell."

Kurt's lip curled in distaste. "Obviously you haven't heard about us."

Dave gulped audibly. He still hadn't moved from his position by the door. "Us?" he echoed nervously.

"Kurt's gone." The smile was back, and Dave's blood ran cold.

"Kurt, _what_ are you talking about? Is this some kind of joke? 'Cause it's _not_ funny."

"_Ow!_ Fuck!" Kurt abruptly cried out, his head twitching to the side and his eyes squeezing shut as if he'd had a sudden migraine. He massaged the side of his head for a moment with a pained expression before turning his attention back to Dave. "Okay, _fine_," he snapped (and Jesus Christ _why_ was he talking like that?). "Kurt wants me to tell you that he's still here. And he's being _super fucking annoying_."

Dave really couldn't process anything that Kurt was doing. Was he even awake? Had Dave wandered onto a movie set or something and Kurt was just playing a character? What did Kurt think he was doing? Dave just stood there, staring.

"Better close your mouth. You'll catch flies."

Dave's jaw snapped shut, but it wasn't from what Kurt had said. His voice had changed again, this time dropping below his normal pitch, low and graveled.

"Okay," Dave said slowly, his own voice shaking. "I really don't know what the hell is going on with you, so maybe I should just—"

"No, you can stay," Kurt said. "I can explain." He closed the book on his lap and set it aside.

Dave was silent, not moving towards the bed, but not making a move to leave either.

Kurt leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "This is gonna sound completely fucked up," he said.

_More fucked up than whatever the hell you were just doing?_ Dave wanted to retort.

"And the only reason that I'm telling you this now is that Kurt's asking me to. Otherwise I really don't give a shit," Kurt said, and Dave really wanted to slap Kurt to _wake him the hell up_. "But… Kurt's a multiple."

"I don't know what the hell you're—"

Kurt held up a hand, cutting Dave off. "_We_ are not just one person," he said. "There's eight of us, and we all take turns using the body."

Kurt referring to himself as 'we' and 'the body' made Dave feel like he needed to throw up. He swallowed the bile in his throat, though, and mustered up the courage to say, "Yeah, that's completely fucked up."

Kurt nodded in agreement. He scratched behind his ear. "Sorry about Eleanor. She's even more fucked up than the rest of us."

"Who the hell is Eleanor?"

Kurt winced slightly, running a hand over his head. "That would be the creepy psychotic sixth grader that you just met. I'm Robbie." He sat back with a heavy breath. "And if it makes you feel any better, Kurt's not an alter."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means he's real," Kurt – Robbie – replied. "I really don't give a fuck what your relationship with him is, but you should at least know that he's real."


	28. Que Sera

_Que Sera_

Finn came back from a cafeteria run to find Karofsky standing just inside the door of Kurt's room, and instinctively prepared himself for a fight. "You can't be in here," he said in lieu of a greeting.

Karofsky glanced back at Kurt nervously, and Finn could immediately tell that whatever had happened in this few minutes he'd been gone had opened Karofsky's eyes to who Kurt really was.

"You need to leave," he pressed. "Now. You have to go."

Karofsky still didn't move, though Finn couldn't tell whether it was just from shock or because he didn't want to leave. Kurt sent his former bully a look that said _Sorry, not my problem_, confirming Finn's suspicion that Kurt wasn't even there.

Finn decided to take control of the situation. He grabbed Karofsky by the arm and yanked him into the hall, shutting the door tightly behind him. "Okay, look," he said, shoving his old teammate further down the corridor so as to be out of earshot. "Whatever friendship that you and Kurt have now that you're at another school? It's gone. Forget it."

"What?" was Karofsky's eloquent response.

"Kurt can't have you around him," Finn said forcefully. "You make him stressed, and stress makes him switch."

"I-I… I don't understand," Karofsky stammered. "How long has he been like this?"

Finn sighed, pulling his fingers through his hair. "A long time. Look," he said again. "You— What Kurt does… it's to protect himself. And, yeah, Kurt's forgiven you for all the crap you put him through, but the alters? They haven't. Frankly, neither have I." Finn crossed his arms, his face hard. "And his dad _definitely_ hasn't."

Karofsky shook his head. "No," he argued. "No, I've _changed_; you—"

"I don't care if you've changed or not," Finn cut him off sharply. "It's not about you. It's about how what you did affected Kurt."

"But that was a long time ago—"

"I know. That's the point; that's what this is." Finn let out a heavy breath, knowing that Karofsky wouldn't leave until he had more of an understanding of the situation. "Kurt's trapped, okay? He's stuck in all this crap that happened years ago, and you being here is only going to make it harder for him to get better."

"Why?" Karofsky protested. "I mean, Kurt told me himself – we're okay now."

"What Kurt told you doesn't matter," Finn countered, shaking his head.

Karofsky frowned. "What, he lied?"

"No. Kurt didn't lie – he's just not connected. His brain is not going to let go of everything you made him deal with, because he _can't_ deal with it," Finn insisted. He stepped aside for a second to allow a nurse in purple scrubs to pass by and enter Kurt's room, presumably to change the bandages on Kurt's arms. "He might not even remember what you did to him – whatever he was feeling has been pushed into some other part of his brain because _that's_ what his brain is. It's just pieces."

"This is insane—"

Finn nodded. "Yeah, it is. It's crazy. But there's nothing we can do about it right now except try to keep him from getting stressed, which is why you have to _go_."

"I still don't get why—"

This time, Karofsky was cut off by a scathing yell from Kurt's room, and Finn whipped around, not really caring that Karofsky had lost all the color in his face in less than a second.

"_GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME, YOU FUCKING WHORE._"

Not leaving any room for himself to think, Finn broke into a run and rushed back into the room. The nurse who'd entered a few moments before yelped, leaping away from Kurt's reach. His reflexes taking over, Finn bolted to the bed and grabbed his stepbrother around the torso just as the smaller boy was about to lunge at the nurse.

"_Can we get some help in here?!_" Finn shouted, struggling to keep Kurt _down_. The nurse whimpered and scurried out and down the hallway.

Kurt legs kicked and his fists beat at Finn's chest, but Finn couldn't let himself acknowledge just how much it hurt. He gritted his teeth as he tried to control Kurt's arms, but (he couldn't be sure where it had come from) the skin was suddenly slick with blood and his palms were slipping, coming away wet and red. Kurt's hand somehow worked itself free and his fingernails whipped across Finn's throat.

Ignoring the searing pain radiating from his neck, Finn grabbed Kurt's free arm and pinned it against the bed. "Let Kurt out," he snarled. "Whoever you are, _let him out_. Come on, Kurt, wake up."

"Out of the way!" a doctor just running into the room ordered, pushing Finn aside.

Exhaling slowly and trying to stop his nerves from feeling like they were charged with static, Finn gratefully stepped back and let the doctor and nurses try to handle it. He ran the back of his hand over his face, heading back to the door. He didn't want to be here for this.

In the hallway, Finn found Karofsky still standing there, just _staring_ through the ward window as Kurt was jabbed in the leg with a syringe. Finn let out a breath and leaned back against the wall by the door.

"He's not always like this," Finn said, closing his eyes for a minute. He was _tired_ – in his head, in his body, in his bones. "In case you were wondering."

Karofsky's gaze didn't waver. "I thought you said he's been sick for a long time."

"He has, just… not this bad," Finn clarified. "He's dealing with a lot of crap."

"Whoa," Karofsky said, blanching. "Why's he bleeding?"

Finn glanced at his palms, which bore a few smears of blood from when he'd grabbed Kurt's arms. "Must've ripped his stitches."

"Jesus."

The two of them were silent for a long while, until Finn finally spoke. "Karofsky, you know that it would never have worked out, right?" he said.

Karofsky glanced at him for a moment before returning his eyes to the window. "What do you mean?" he asked absentmindedly.

"Between you and Kurt," Finn replied. "Even if he wasn't sick, it wouldn't have worked out."

This time, Karofsky fully turned to face him. "Why not?"

"Well, your first mistake was coming out to him by _assaulting_ him," Finn responded dryly, not really caring that the statement made Karofsky wince.

"You know about that?"

Finn shrugged. "He's my brother." He straightened up, stepping away from the wall. "I'm going to go clean up. It'll probably be best if you're gone when I get back."

* * *

><p>In the waiting area by the nurse's station, Finn was taking a break from being in the same room as Kurt when Burt came over and sat down beside him. Burt had gotten back only a half hour earlier from going home to shower and change, but since Kurt was still out cold from the Haldol injection, there wasn't much of a reason to stay in the room. Finn had made sure not to mention Karofsky's visit – Burt didn't need to be stressing out over anything else, and while Finn didn't exactly <em>like<em> Karofsky, he knew him well enough to know when he was a threat and when he wasn't.

"You doing okay?" Burt asked, adjusting his cap on his head.

Finn nodded, flipping the page of the _NASCAR_ magazine in his hands. "Yeah. Are you?"

"All things considered, sure." Burt yawned widely and rubbed a palm over his face. "I'm going to have to go back to work soon. Linus isn't going to cover my ass for me much longer."

"Every time you talk about your assistant, I picture him with a blue blanket and a thumb in his mouth," Finn remarked.

Burt grinned. "I know, so do I. And I work with him."

Finn sighed and placed the magazine on the low table next to his chair. "You want me to make a coffee run?"

"Nah, thanks," Burt said, flapping a hand. "Had some at home." He paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Finn, are we putting too much pressure on you?" he asked abruptly.

Finn frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

"You babysit Kurt a _lot_," Burt replied. "That's a lot of responsibility for someone who's just a kid."

"I'm eighteen."

"You know what I meant, Finn," Burt said sternly. "But I never really thought that you'd say no, and because of that I forgot that you had a right to."

Finn's frown deepened. "Why do I have a right to say no?"

"Look, you're not his brother, technically spe—"

"Yes, I am," Finn interrupted. "But it is too much."

Burt nodded. "Okay," he said. "Okay, so what can we do?"

Finn sighed, looking ahead, towards the nurse's station rather than at his stepfather. "Did…" he started, unsure of how Burt might react. "Did you ever think that maybe… maybe Kurt would be better off in some kind of home? Some place where they know what to do with him?"

Burt let out a long breath. "Yeah," he said. "'Course I did. I mean, you've seen what Eleanor and Craig can do; the messes that Truman's got him into. But… Jesus. I can't send Kurt to a psych ward."

"What if you have to?"

Burt scratched at his jaw. "You have any idea of the kinda people that live in those places? They're… they're scary, Finn. I can't in good conscience send my kid to one of those places."

"_Kurt_ is one of those people, Burt," Finn said. "I don't want him living anywhere except at home, but what if we're only making it worse?"

Burt clenched his jaw and stayed silent for several minutes, and Finn could almost watch the heavy gears spinning in Burt's head. Eventually, he let out a short, heavy breath, and spoke.

"I'll… I'll start looking at some places close to Lima."

* * *

><p>Scandals was even less crowded than usual that evening as Dave approached the bar and ordered a beer from Julian, the bartender. He came here often enough to know that Monday nights were always the slowest, but for once he was grateful for the absence of the crowd – he just needed a familiar place to have a drink.<p>

Dave's Heineken bottle was only a quarter empty when Sebastian took the stool beside him. Dave frowned at the Dalton boy. "…There a reason you're sitting with me?"

Sebastian glanced at him for a moment, then ordered a beer from Julian. "We're processing the same stuff, aren't we?" he said, leaning his elbows on the bar.

"How would you know?"

"Please," Sebastian scoffed. "You're the most blatantly obvious person I know. I know you're head over heels for Kurt, and so it makes sense that all… _this_—" He gestured distastefully at Dave's general shape. "—is Kurt's fault."

Dave frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"There's not a lot of things that could make you this obviously upset. So, unless you were accidentally outed at school or something, I'm willing to bet that you found out about Kurt and his counterparts."

Dave sighed. He knew better than to argue with Sebastian – the kid was a shark. "Yeah, okay. I did."

"How?"

Dave took a long gulp of his beer before responding. "Came face to face with it."

Sebastian picked up his own beer. "Yeah? Me too."

Dave blinked at him. "You mean… that night—?"

The Dalton boy nodded.

"Jesus."

"Yeah."

"Well, here's to Kurt, I guess," Dave said, holding out his beer.

For a few seconds Sebastian seemed like he was debating whether or not he should toast, but then he nodded and clinked his bottle against Dave's. "To Kurt."


	29. Clockwork Soldier

_Clockwork Soldier_

Finn was fed up with school. He really was. With classes, with the annoying teachers who were either not concerned at all or _too_ concerned, with the other kids who thought that he and his whole family was tainted. Nearly everyone aside from the Glee kids avoided him like the plague, afraid that if they got too close they would catch Kurt's… bad luck or insanity or whatever contagion they thought Finn was carrying. He was fed up with Mr. Schue's constant attempts to talk to him or get him to sing about his frustration. He was fed up with Quinn's disbelieving remarks and Sugar's insensitive comments about straitjackets and padded cells. He was fed up with Rory staring at the floor any time Kurt was mentioned, and he was fed up with Blaine being a selfish ass.

It was during lunch on Tuesday when he finally snapped.

For the most part, Finn's lunches were spent moodily stabbing at his food and eating only half of it while the rest of the club chatted. He had other things on his mind and he didn't have space in his head for football scores and homework assignments and song arrangements. Even Rachel had given up on trying to get him integrated, and resigned to just sitting next to him while he ate and she talked with the others.

On Tuesday, though, Tina suggested that the club put together a number or two to sing to Kurt at the hospital. "You know, as a kind of pick-me-up," she said. "He could use it."

Something in Finn's head _clicked_, and he dropped his fork onto his tray, his face hardening. "That's not going to happen," he snapped.

The entire club stared at him.

"I'm sorry, I was just thinking that—" Tina started, her eyes wide.

"Yeah, well, whatever it is you had in mind? Holding hands and singing 'Kumbaya' in Kurt's hospital room isn't going to do a damn thing," Finn snarled. He was almost surprised by the vehemence in his voice, but he decided that he really didn't give a crap.

"Finn," Rachel said softly. "She's just trying to help."

"I know! Stop helping!"

Then, Quinn made the mistake of interjecting. "Finn, whatever Kurt is dealing with, he needs a support network," she said.

"_He already has one!_" Finn bellowed, lurching to his feet. Rachel flinched and leaned away from him.

"Well, he needs a _bigger_ one," Quinn shouted back, also standing up. "You're acting all high-and-mighty because you think you're the only one dealing with this!"

Finn gave a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, that's rich coming from you," he spat.

"_I'm Kurt's friend!_" she yelled, determined to make herself heard. The majority of the people in the cafeteria had fallen silent. "I don't care if you agree with that or not, but we _all_ care about Kurt, all right? Have you even thought about Rachel? Or Mercedes? They've known Kurt for even longer than you, and you're acting like you have more of a right to care about him than anyone else!"

"Screw you," Finn growled, his jaw tense. "Just… screw you. I'm done." He turned and stormed through the maze of awkwardly quiet tables, heading for the door.

"_Grow up_, Finn!" Quinn shouted after him. "He's not a broken toy!"

Finn's nerves felt heated as he approached the doors, his vision tinged with red. He was forced to stop in his tracks when someone jumped in front of him and thrust a tape recorder in his face.

"Finn, any comment on the hostilities just exchanged between you and Quinn Fabray?" Jacob inquired.

Not stopping to think even for a split second, Finn drew his fist back and punched Jacob in the nose. A sickening wet _crack_ echoed across the silent room, making most of the people in it cringe as Jacob fell to the ground, howling and clutching his face. Blood was dripping onto the floor from around his fingers.

Finn stepped around him and slammed through the door. Someone else could clean up. It wasn't his job any more.

* * *

><p>In the middle of history class, Miss Pillsbury stuck her head through the door and asked Ms. Hagberg to borrow Finn for a few minutes. Finn sighed, knowing exactly what she wanted him for, and followed her into the corridor.<p>

"Let's have a little chat, okay?" Miss Pillsbury said, giving him a doll-ish smile before leading him down the hall to her office. "Have a seat," she said, plopping down into her own chair.

Finn sat, waiting for her to speak.

"So," she started, clasping her hands on the top of her desk. "I heard you had a little bit of a scuffle in the cafeteria earlier."

"Is Jacob's nose broken?"

"Yes."

"Awesome."

Miss Pillsbury's eyebrows shot up. "You're glad he's injured?"

"Yeah," Finn nodded. "He got what was coming to him. I'm sick of dealing with all the crap he gives us."

Miss Pillsbury tilted her head to the side, looking like some odd orange-haired cartoon bird. "'Us' being who?"

"Me," said Finn. "Kurt. Our parents. The rest of the kids in Glee. Everyone." His fingers tapped irritatedly against the arm of his chair. "Jacob's a piece of shit," he stated.

Miss Pillsbury pursed her tiny mouth. "Well, normally, I'd ask you to see Principal Figgins for using that kind of language, but I'm going to excuse it for now," she said.

"Why?"

"You're under a lot of pressure, Finn. You could use a break."

"You're treating me like _I'm_ the one with split personalities," Finn snapped.

"Yes, about that…" Miss Pillsbury fiddled with a pen, clearly trying to keep her hands occupied. "How's life at home? Is everything all right?"

"That's a retarded question."

"Why?"

"My brother's insane. Obviously, things are crap." Finn could see that Miss Pillsbury was confused by his bitter language in regards to Kurt, but he was sick of dancing around the issue. He couldn't even dance literally – he shouldn't be expected to do so figuratively as well.

"Would you like to elaborate on that?" Miss Pillsbury asked. A polite way of saying _Keep talking_.

Finn turned his head to look out through the glass walls (and _why_ were they glass? Didn't that defeat the purpose of a counselor's office?). "Not really," he said flatly.

Miss Pillsbury sighed, leaning back in her chair. "Finn, I need to know if you're okay."

Finn frowned at her. "Why?"

"It's my job. And I'm a little concerned."

"And by 'a little' you mean 'very.'"

Miss Pillsbury paused. "…Yes."

Finn shrugged, his leg jiggling against the floor. "Okay, well, what do you want me to say?"

She shrugged, her buoyant hair bouncing around her shoulders. "Just… tell me how you're feeling."

"Well, my brother's crazy and about to be shipped off to some nuthouse, people seem to think he's _my_ responsibility, half the upstairs in my house is covered in blood, my girlfriend keeps asking me about our Valentine's Day plans, and my mom is so worried about Kurt that she's got no idea I failed my history test yesterday."

Miss Pillsbury stared at him for several seconds, as if she was waiting for him to keep spewing word-vomit. But Finn was done. "…I see," she said a moment later.

"No, you don't."

She swallowed. "You're lashing out, and that's understandable. You have to remember, though, I'm here to help you. And so is everyone else who loves and cares about you."

Finn was quiet, his leg shaking incessantly.

Miss Pillsbury's doe-like eyes seemed to grow smaller as she studied him, and he squirmed. "You said that Kurt's going into a home," she started. "Do you know where?"

He shook his head, staring intently at one of the bottles of hand sanitizer on her desk.

She laced her fingers in her lap, draping one leg over the other. "Whose idea was it?"

"Mine."

Her eyebrows disappeared beneath her bangs. She hesitated before speaking again. "And… how do you feel about that?"

Finn grimaced at her, making her flinch. "Miss Pillsbury… no offense, but did they even cover this in counselor school?"

"…No."

"It shows."

* * *

><p>As the two of them sat down to dinner, Emma quietly chewed her salad as Will prattled on about his ideas for Regionals arrangements, her mind elsewhere. She supposed she should be putting more effort into listening to what he was saying, but she was too preoccupied. She was confused, mostly. Confused by what little (or lot, depending on how you viewed it) she'd seen of Kurt's alters, confused by Finn's bitterness toward his stepbrother, and confused by the fact that all her years of training and experience seemed to be rendered useless. All it took was one boy – one problem that didn't fit the textbook – and she felt completely useless.<p>

"Em?"

Her head snapped up. Will was watching her expectantly. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I asked you what you thought of my ideas for the set list."

"Oh," she said. "Yes. Yes, it all sounds great."

Will put his fork down and propped his elbows on the table. "What's wrong?"

"No-nothing."

"Emma."

She sighed. She was a horrible liar and she knew it. Her skills of deception were even worse than her counseling. "It's Finn," she admitted. "Well… it's Finn, and Kurt, and everything else."

Will nodded. "I heard you had a meeting with Finn this afternoon," he said. "How'd that go?"

Emma pressed her lips together, fiddling with her napkin. "It opened my eyes to the fact that I really have no idea what I'm doing."

"I don't know what to do either," Will sighed. "How is he, by the way? Did he open up at all? 'Cause he hasn't with me."

She shook her head. "No, he's… he's clearly very upset, but he's not telling me everything. And he's not really himself – he was being very insensitive. Angry."

"I can't say I blame him for that," Will replied. "What can I do for him, though? Singing's not working; he's completely disconnected during rehearsal. Blaine too."

Emma gave him a small smile. "It's sweet that you think so, but the fact is that music isn't a cure-all. It doesn't work for everything and it doesn't work for everyone."

Will leaned back, raking his fingers through his hair. "Well, I need to do _something_," he said. "I can't just sit by and watch Finn and Blaine crumble."

"I don't really know what to tell you, Will." She chewed on her lip. "I'd suggest talking about it with them individually, but Finn was very resistant when I spoke with him, and the last time I met with Blaine he yelled at me and stormed out."

Will exhaled heavily. "They never taught us this in college."

"It's called abnormal psychology for a reason," Emma told him gently.

He winced. "Oh God, Emma, don't talk about Kurt like that."

"I wasn't talking about Kurt; I was talking about his problem. They're two separate things."

"Are they, though?" Will asked.

Emma stopped short, confused.

"I mean… What if _Kurt_ is just another personality? Would we be able to tell?"

"I don't know. I'm completely out of my depth."


	30. Wrong, Wrong, And Terribly Wrong

_Wrong, Wrong, And Terribly Wrong  
><em>

Kurt was discharged from St. Rita's on Thursday morning, and when Finn came home from school he found Kurt standing still in the upstairs hallway by the door to his bedroom.

"Kurt?" Finn said, hoping that it was actually his stepbrother standing there.

There was no response, so Finn reached out and put a hand on Kurt's shoulder. Kurt jumped.

"Are you okay?" Finn asked.

Kurt blinked. "Yeah," he said softly, his eyes dropping back to the floor. "I'm fine."

Finn didn't have to look down to know what Kurt was staring at, but he did anyway. The carpet beside Kurt's door and a large portion of the rug inside the bedroom bore an almost-black stain that, if one didn't look too closely, could be mistaken for mold. There was a large smudge in the middle where Carole had tried unsuccessfully to scrub it with a carpet brush.

"Mom said that she'll have them replaced, but she's been kinda busy," Finn said.

Kurt was quiet.

"Are you going to stand here all day?"

Kurt gave his head a shake. "I'm sorry, Finn, I'm just…" He let out a long breath through his nose, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed.

"Well, snap out of it," Finn said. "I need your help with something. Come on."

He walked down the hall to his own room and then waited for Kurt to follow, carefully sidestepping around the blackened bloodstain.

"I _knew_ you'd ignore your laundry until I got back from the hospital," Kurt said the moment he walked into Finn's bedroom, eyeing the pile of dirty clothes on the floor next to the bed. "You couldn't even put them in the hamper?"

"There's the Kurt I know," Finn replied over his shoulder, opening his closet.

Kurt rolled his eyes, looking much more like himself. Having something to criticize always seemed to make him feel better. "So, what do you need help with? Rachel advice? Need me to do your Spanish homework?"

"Actually," Finn said. "I need fashion advice."

"Fa—" Kurt's jaw dropped and he mockingly put a hand to his chest. "Oh my God. We've got to call Dr. Goldberg. I'm not the only one who's got multiple personalities."

"Shut up, dude. It's for Sugar's Valentine's Day party at Breadsticks. She's insisting everybody dress up."

"Valentine's isn't until next Tuesday."

"Yeah, but Sugar's dad booked the party for Saturday 'cause that's the only time you can reserve the whole restaurant."

Kurt huffed. "I'll make a deal with you, since this is going to be the closest I'll get to a party for a long time," he said, crossing his arms. "I'll help you out so long as you _clean up your laundry_ without making me do it."

Finn snorted. "Yeah, okay, deal."

"Shake on it," Kurt demanded, holding out his hand. Finn shook it. "Okay, then. What look are you going for?"

"Um… not naked?"

"Good starting point," Kurt said dryly, rummaging through the closet. "Let me rephrase – what sort of party is this?"

Finn made a face. "A Sugar Motta party."

"…Right."

"She's insisting that everyone bring a date, though – no singles allowed."

Kurt nodded thoughtfully, studying the haphazard collection of clothes in Finn's closet. "Okay, so… something sexy and not _too_ classy, because God knows Sugar Motta seems to think 'rich' and 'classy' are synonymous…"

"I have no idea what that means."

Kurt was silent for several seconds, seeming deep in thought. Abruptly, he turned to Finn. "You got any gum?"

His voice had dropped to Truman's pitch, and Finn sighed, annoyed that Kurt didn't seem to be able to stick around for even a few minutes. "Gum's in the top drawer of my desk," he said.

Kurt returned to the closet a minute later, shrugging off his hoodie and tossing it onto the bed, gum smacking loudly between his teeth. "I like having something in my mouth; helps me think," he said. "So, you trying to get into her pants?"

Finn blinked. "Huh?"

The gum popped. "If I'm going to help you figure out what the fuck you're wearing, I've got to know what you're trying to accomplish with this chick. Guys don't think about what they wear unless it's for something specific."

"You're… helping me?"

Kurt rolled his eyes, now looking nothing like himself. "I hear _everything_, dude. And Kurt's advice would be to wear something that would _not_ get you laid. Figured I might as well lend my services so you don't fuck up. Just 'cause _I_ can't screw chicks doesn't mean that I can't enjoy other people doing so. You should see my porn collection."

"Gross."

"Don't tell Kurt, though. It's hidden on his laptop." Kurt winked with a grin.

Finn tried to change the subject. "I'm not trying to get laid, dude. Well, I'd like to, but I don't think I need to—"

"Wrong!" Kurt cut him off. "You _do_ need to. A guy's number one mistake is thinking that the chicks are the only ones who've got to make themselves look fuckable."

Finn's jaw clacked shut.

An hour later, Kurt was kicking back on the bed while Finn examined himself in the mirror. Kurt – or rather Truman – had forced Finn into every imaginable combination of clothing from Finn's closet and finally settled on black jeans, a green t-shirt that was a little too small for him, and a black vest.

"This actually doesn't look bad," Finn said thoughtfully.

"Of course it doesn't," said Kurt. "That's because I'm a fucking expert. Please tell me you've got a pack of cigarettes somewhere in here. I need my nicotine fix, stat."

"Sorry, dude. Not really a smoker."

Kurt sat up with an astonished expression. "_Never_?"

"Well, Puck and I smoked for, like, a week in freshman year."

"Pussy."

Finn turned around. "Come on, dude, that's uncalled for."

Kurt shrugged, popping his gum loudly as he sat up. He took the gum out of his mouth and stuck it under the lip of Finn's desk. Finn grimaced, but said nothing.

"So, you think I'd be allowed past the door at this party?" Kurt asked.

"Probably not."

Kurt's tongue clicked against his teeth. "Damn it. I was hoping to score with a few of those sorority chicks Puck's bringing."

"How'd you know about them?" Finn frowned, pulling off the vest.

"Hacked Kurt's Facebook account."

"…You didn't send anything to anyone, did you?"

"Well, I 'poked' Puck, if that's what you mean," Kurt grinned.

"How many times do I have to tell you? Puck isn't gay."

"Whatever," Kurt said, forming a W with his fingers.

A moment later, Kurt's eyelids fluttered and he glanced around the room. "How much did I miss?" he asked.

"Just an hour," Finn answered, relieved.

Kurt ran his eyes over Finn's outfit. "That looks good, actually. Who came up with that?"

"Truman."

"Ah."

Finn sat on the bed next to him, and the two were silent for a long time. He could practically hear the gears in Kurt's head spinning, and he didn't have to ask to know that Kurt was trying to work up the courage to say something, so Finn stayed quiet and waited for Kurt to speak.

"I have to tell you something," Kurt finally said, breaking the silence.

Finn ran a hand over his hair. "If this is about you trying to kill yourself, I already know."

Kurt's eyes widened. "You—" His voice cracked and he had to start over. "You do?"

Finn nodded. "You're not as subtle as you think you are, dude."

Kurt looked for a moment like he was about to apologize for lying, but then he blurted out, "You know what 'subtle' means?"

Finn chuckled. "Don't get your hopes up. I still have no idea how to spell it."

He was caught off-guard when Kurt suddenly wrapped his arms around him. "Whoa," he said. "Hug ambush, much?"

"I just… thanks."

Kurt's head abruptly snapped up, and he turned to Finn with a look of revulsion. Finn immediately braced himself for a snap from Eleanor or a punch from Craig.

"Is that _gum_ under your desk?" Kurt exclaimed, his voice still his own.

"Uh… I think Puck left that there," Finn said quickly.

"Boys are _disgusting_."


	31. A Rather Intolerable Pain In The Head

_A Rather Intolerable Pain In The Head  
><em>

Finn and Kurt hung out in Finn's room, talking about anything other than Kurt's problems, until Carole called them downstairs for dinner.

"Smells great," Kurt said as he and Finn sat down at the dining table. "Normally, I'd say 'no, thanks' to the tuna pasta, but I'm starving and I'm a little beyond caring about my carb intake at the moment."

Burt and Carole exchanged a glance that Kurt didn't see, as he was busy dropping a large serving onto his plate. Finn saw the look, though, and somehow knew what was coming. He tensed involuntarily.

"Kurt, we need to talk," Burt said, clearing his throat.

"About what?"

"I have to go back to work."

Kurt paused, mid-chew. "…Okay?" he said.

"Carole and I can't stay home from work any more," Burt continued tightly. It was obvious that he didn't like what he was about to say, and Finn kept an eye on Kurt, carefully gauging his response. "It's not financially possible, especially considering the hospital bill after your mishap. We need to start thinking about what you're going to do."

Kurt swallowed, and Finn saw realization flit over his face. Whether or not he _knew_ what Burt was talking about was unclear, but he had an idea; Finn could see that much.

Burt picked up a small scrap of paper from the table by his wrist, where Kurt couldn't have seen it before. His father slid the paper over to him. "These are the names of six hospitals," Burt said, and Finn watched as Kurt's face gradually contorted, as if it was trying to cave in on itself. "I want you to look at them, try to get a feel for them, and then we'll set up an evaluation at whichever one you choose. You should be a part of the process."

"Dad—" Kurt choked out, barely audible.

"Kurt, you _know_ I'm just trying to do right by you," Burt said, his voice wavering. "But if we're going to make this work, then Carole and I need to both be at work full-time, and we can't leave you alone." He reached out and wrapped his fingers firmly around Kurt's forearm, over the bandages.

"Dad, you can't do this to me," Kurt whispered. His eyes were wide and covered in a glassy film.

"We want to help you, Kurt," Carole cut in. She was already crying. "And we can't. Not like this."

"S-so you're just sending me away?" Kurt's voice was thin and stretched. "You're locking me up?"

Burt shook his head vehemently. "_No_, Kurt, we— We made sure that all of these hospitals are in Ohio, no more than three hours away. We'll visit every weekend and any other days we have free, no matter what. And with the doctors, we'll _make you better_."

Kurt turned to Finn, his face _broken_. "Did you know about this?"

Finn couldn't force himself to look Kurt in the eye, so he stared at his plate and nodded his head. Kurt's chair scraped against the floor as he lurched to his feet.

"Kurt—" Carole started to go after him as he disappeared towards the stairs, but Burt stopped her.

"Let him be for a little while," he said shakily. "He might calm down faster if we leave him alone."

"But what if—"

"There's nothing sharp up there," Burt assured her. "I got rid of it all."

A door slammed upstairs, leaving the entire house silent for a long time. Carole let out a long breath before sitting down again. No one was hungry any more.

A minute later, there was a muffled but solid-sounding _thump_ from upstairs, followed by another _thump_ a few seconds later, then a third, and fourth.

"What's he doing?" Finn asked.

"I'm not sure," Burt replied, staring in the direction of the staircase.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

"Well, what _could_ he be doing?" Carole said, her forehead knitted with worry.

"Might be knocking the furniture around," Burt thought. "He's done that before."

"It doesn't sound like that," Finn cut in.

_Thump._ Finn felt the bottom of his stomach grow tighter. _Thump. Thump._

Burt stood up. "I'll go see if he's okay," he said, but Carole stopped him.

"I don't think he can talk to you right now, Burt," she told him gently. "I'll go."

Burt swallowed, sitting back down as Carole left the two men at the table. She quickly climbed up the stairs to Kurt's room, and the _thumps_ grew louder. "Kurt, honey?" she called, knocking lightly on the door.

_Thump._

"Kurt?"

_Thump._

Carole sighed, biting her lip. _Thump_. "I'm coming in, Kurt," she said, turning the knob.

The door was locked.

_Thump_.

"Kurt, please open the door."

_Thump_.

"Kurt."

_Thump._

"Kurt!" Carole yanked on the handle, rattling the door in its frame. "Open this door!"

"Carole?" came Burt's voice from the foot of the stairs. "What's going on?"

_Thump._

"Kurt's locked himself in!" She rattled the door again, hoping that the noise would shake Kurt out of whatever state he was in. _Thump_. "Kurt!"

Burt ran up the stairs a minute later, pushing Carole to the side. He had a very small screwdriver in his hand. _Thump_. Sliding the nose of the screwdriver into the tiny hole in the doorknob, he jiggled it for a second, then twisted it until it clicked.

The door swung open, and at first, neither Burt nor Carole saw Kurt. Then, another _thump_, sounding solid and painful now that they were in the room, made Carole edge around the end of Kurt's bed.

Kurt was sitting on the floor, curled up with his back propped against his desk, ramming the back of his head into it over and over and over again.

Carole immediately dropped to her knees and pulled Kurt away from the desk, wrapping her arms around him in an attempt to calm him and to keep him from hurting himself any further. She could see the small bloodied patch on the back of his head where it had been hit enough to break the skin.

"Sh, shh," she said, holding him tightly so that he wouldn't move away. He didn't fight her, but he didn't seem to be able to hear her, either.

* * *

><p>Hours later, Burt was sitting on the couch, having a beer and absentmindedly watching the basketball game on TV. Carole had stayed in Kurt's room with him until Schism had finally taken control, and then left him on his own with the door propped open. No one had eaten dinner.<p>

It was nearing midnight when Kurt walked past and vanished into the kitchen without so much as a word to Burt. Burt was about to stand up and see what he was doing, but Kurt returned a second later with his own beer, sitting heavily on the couch next to him.

"Who's winning?" he asked gruffly before popping the cap off with his teeth.

"Lakers," Burt answered. He reached for the bottle. "You're not supposed to be drinking that."

Kurt held the beer out of Burt's reach. "Fuck off, asshole."

Burt threw up his hands. "Fine. Do what you want." He turned his eyes back to the TV. "Is Kurt all right?"

"Why do you give a shit?"

"I'm his father."

Kurt laughed harshly. "No, you're not."

"Craig, we've gone over this and over this before. You are not Kurt's father. You _can't_ be, because you're not real."

Kurt gave a sinister grin that always made Burt's stomach twist and set his teeth on edge. "I'm real, all right," he said. "And I do way more for the little fag than you've done in your sorry-ass life."

Burt's jaw clenched, and he turned to face Kurt full-on. "Do _not_ tell me that I'm a bad father," he snarled. "I don't hit my son, or call him names, or torture him in _any_ way. That's _your_ department, and it does not make you his father."

"You don't protect him," Kurt snapped back. "You've _never_ protected him, and so it's really _your_ fault that he's completely fucked in the head."

"What are you talking about? I've always protected him."

"And that's where you're fucking wrong."

Kurt stood and stomped back upstairs, taking his beer with him.


	32. With Empty Eyes And A Big Hollow Voice

_With Empty Eyes And A Big Hollow Voice  
><em>

Burt yawned as he sat down at the kitchen table for breakfast the next morning, his eyes shadowed and his face drawn. Carole gave him a mug of coffee before sitting beside Finn, who was halfway through scarfing down a plate of scrambled eggs. She told him to slow down; the food wasn't running away from him.

"You going to be okay today, Carole?" Burt asked.

"We'll be fine," she replied, sipping her tea. She didn't sound like she believed it.

Finn swallowed his last bite (or rather shovelful) of breakfast and grabbed his backpack off the coat rack by the door. "I'll see you after school," he said, shrugging on his coat and heading out to his truck.

Carole drank her tea in silence for several minutes, studying Burt and trying to tell if he was handling his distress well or if he was only hiding it. "Burt, did you get any sleep last night at all?" she prompted, setting her mug on the table.

As if on cue, he yawned again, rubbing the back of his neck. "I got about an hour, I think."

Carole didn't have to ask what was keeping him up. Her legs were still sore from sitting in an uncomfortable position for hours yesterday, with Kurt's weight on her lap, and seeing Schism emerge was never a pleasant experience for anyone, especially Burt. One of the things Carole had come to love most about her stepson is that his thoughts were always written on his face, though he was probably not aware of it. Even when he was daydreaming or zoning out, she could always tell what the weather was like in his head. Schism was the exact opposite, and she wasn't even sure if Schism had any thoughts at all. He was just… a vacuum. And Carole would prefer even Craig to nothing.

"Last night," Burt said, staring into his coffee mug. "Craig came down and talked with me for a minute."

Carole frowned. Burt wouldn't have brought a conversation with Craig up unless Craig had said something strange.

"He still thinks Kurt's his kid."

"Well, we've always known that, Burt. Dr. Goldberg says that probably won't change," Carole reminded him gently. "Did Craig say anything else?"

Burt's forehead was knitted very tightly as he spoke. "He said… that I've never protected Kurt. That it's my fault Kurt's the way he is."

Carole immediately reached across the table and placed her hand over Burt's. "Honey, you _know_ that's not even a little bit true."

"I'm not so sure it isn't," he said quietly.

"No, Burt—"

He cut her off firmly. "Look what happened last year with that Karofsky kid. I had _no_ idea that was even going on until I saw it for myself," he said. "I didn't protect him."

"Burt, stop—"

"I'm not saying that I'm the one who's entirely to blame, Carole," Burt said, shaking his head and laying his hands flat against the table. "But what if there's something else that Kurt's trying to tell me?"

Carole frowned. "Like what?"

Burt swallowed, studying the backs of his hands. When he spoke, it was in a low tone that Carole didn't like. "What if Goldberg's right about the flashbacks?"

"There's no way to tell if those are anything more than dreams."

"But what if they are?"

Carole sighed and sat back. She hated this entire situation. She felt useless and ill-equipped, and there were too many 'what ifs' involved to know _anything_ for certain. "Well, what should we do?" she asked. "Kurt's going into the hospital soon."

"I know," Burt ran a hand over his face.

"Maybe…" Carole started, biting the inside of her cheek. "Maybe we should just put all of our energy – for the time being – towards making sure the transition into the hospital is as easy for Kurt as we can make it."

Burt exhaled heavily, clamping his mouth shut as if he was trying not to yell. He looked as if he were about to say something, but a voice from behind him interrupted.

"Dad?"

Kurt was standing in the kitchen doorway, dressed in plaid pajama pants and a grey t-shirt, his face blotchy and worn. He seemed to be trying to curl into himself even as he stood, his arms hugging his torso.

"Are you okay?" Burt asked. The question was so much heavier than it would have been in any other circumstance, and Carole felt it suck the air out of the room.

Kurt didn't respond, instead unfolding one of his arms to hand a scrap of paper to Burt. "Appalachian," he said, his voice hoarse. "I want to go to Appalachian."

Burt took the paper to see that it was the list of hospitals he'd tried to give to Kurt the night before: _Twin Valley Behavioral Healthcare. Summit Behavioral Healthcare. Heartland Behavioral Healthcare. Belmont Pines Hospital. Appalachian Behavioral Healthcare. Northwest Ohio Psychiatric Hospital._ Aside from Belmont Pines, they were all state hospitals – affordable.

"You…" Burt started. "You decided?"

Kurt looked down, scuffing his bare feet against the kitchen floor. "I was up all night looking at the websites," he said tremblingly. "Appalachian looks best."

"Okay," Burt replied. "I'll call them to set up an interview."

Kurt nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He turned to leave, but his knees suddenly gave out and he crashed to the floor.

Burt and Carole jumped to their feet, rolling Kurt over and trying to get him to sit up. His eyes were open, but he wasn't responding to their calls, nor was he sitting up on his own. His head lolled back against Burt's arm.

"Come on, Kurt, wake up," Burt repeated, shaking him slightly.

"Burt, stop," Carole said, squeezing Burt's shoulder. "You know Schism doesn't just leave when we ask him to."

Burt forced himself to take a deep breath. "Okay," he said a moment later. "I'll take him over to the couch."

He stood up and then, with a grunt of effort (Kurt was eighteen, after all – already physically a man), carried Kurt into the living room and put him on the couch. Kurt's eyes stayed fully open, blank but awake. Carole draped a knitted blanket over Kurt's shoulders that he didn't notice and planted a kiss on the side of Kurt's head.

Wrapping one arm around Burt's lower back, Carole nudged him affectionately. "Hey," she said.

"Hm?" He pulled his eyes away from his collapsed son to look down at her.

"He'll be okay," she promised. "He will."

Burt nodded, exhaling slowly. "I hope to God you're right."

* * *

><p>Schism stayed right where he was for the entire day, which made easy work for Carole. Burt had been forced to go into the office to start to catch up on some of the work he'd been leaving to his assistant, and so Carole had agreed to not go into her own work until Kurt was situated in the Appalachian Behavioral Healthcare center in Athens.<p>

When Finn got home, Carole was upstairs cleaning the bathroom.

"Mom?" he called.

"Yeah, honey, I'm up here," she answered, scrubbing some grime off the base of the faucet.

A minute later Finn appeared in the bathroom doorway. "Has Schism been out all day?" he asked.

"Since breakfast," she said.

"Jesus. What happened?"

"He settled on a hospital. It… wasn't easy."

Finn nodded understandingly, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms. "Hey, are you free tomorrow night?"

Carole glanced up, dropping her sponge onto the counter next to the sink. "Sure, what's going on?"

"Well, Rachel's dads are having some sort of dinner for all of us."

"The Glee club?"

"No, you, Burt, and me."

Carole's eyebrows shot up. "Really? Why?"

Finn shrugged. "Rachel gave me an explanation, but it was kind of wordy," he said, and Carole chuckled. "As far as I understand, her dads figure that since she and I are going steady the families might as well get to know each other."

"Well, that sounds wonderful," she said. "But, um… only I or Burt can go with you. One of us has to stay here with Kurt."

"I know that," Finn replied. "That's why I asked you if you were free."

"You want Burt to go with you?"

"Uh, no? You're my mom," Finn said. "Burt's an awesome stepdad, but I'd rather you came, since I have to choose."

Carole beamed. "Well, in that case, I am absolutely free."


	33. Give It To The Good Men Up In The Attic

_Give It To The Good Men Up In The Attic  
><em>

To Carole and Finn's relief (Burt was still at work), Kurt finally woke up just as the clock was nearing six in the evening. He walked into the kitchen rubbing his eyes as Finn and Carole were eating dinner, and plopped tiredly into one of the empty chairs.

"Welcome back," said Carole.

"How long was I out?"

"All day, pretty much," she replied, glancing at the clock and adding up the time in her head. "Yeah, almost twelve hours."

"Damn it," Kurt sighed, resting his head on his forearms. Finn's eyebrows shot up. Kurt's language was peppered with profanities whenever the alters were around, but it was extremely rare to hear Kurt swear himself.

Carole patted Kurt soothingly on the back. "There's some mulligatawny soup on the stove if you want some."

"I'm not hungry," Kurt said. "Thanks, though."

"You look exhausted."

"You'd think that after sleeping for twelve hours straight, one would be wide awake," Kurt replied dryly, sounding almost like Robbie. "But nope, I feel like I could sleep for a week."

"You can go to bed if you want, honey," said Carole.

Kurt made himself sit up straighter, running a hand over his head. His hair was just beginning to get noticeably longer, but it was still not much more than a buzz. "No, I'll stay up," he said. "I'm already unconscious enough as is."

Finn swallowed the last of his dinner and stood up to dump his bowl into the sink. "Well, since you're staying up, you mind helping me out with some homework stuff? I want to get it out of the way so it's not hanging over my head during Sugar's party."

Kurt perked up at the thought of having something to do, and the two boys left Carole to clean up the kitchen. Upstairs, Kurt flopped backwards onto Finn's bed, letting his long-ish legs hang off the edge. "So, what do you need to work on?"

"I think I have the history stuff down," Finn said from where he was sitting in his desk chair, rummaging through his backpack. "It's the English and math I need help with."

Kurt nodded, knowing that Finn's class was reading _The Tempest_. He thought it was oddly fitting that they were studying works by a man who nearly always wrote about people going mad.

"Let's work on the Shakespeare first," he said. Finn nodded and pulled out his copy of the play. "And… Finn?"

Finn glanced up. "Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"…For what?"

Kurt propped himself up on his elbows to give Finn an impish look. "You don't care about getting this stuff out of the way; you're just trying to keep me occupied. Don't think I don't see right through you."

"Well, yeah," Finn admitted. "But I seriously don't get what's up with Prospero and Ariel. Are they gay?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Must every two men who like each other be gay?" he chuckled.

"Oh, come on!" Finn protested. "There's like five guys in this play that've said 'I love you' to another guy. Plus, Ariel's a girl name! What am I supposed to think?"

"Love was a different thing back then, Finn," Kurt replied patiently. "I can see we've got a _lot_ of work to do."

It had been just after sunset when Kurt had first woken up, and now the windows darkened to black and the early winter night pressed against the panes. Kurt thought Finn was _just_ beginning to make a breakthrough with understanding why the hell Prospero wanted revenge when Finn's cell phone buzzed on the desk, bringing the both of them back to the twenty-first century.

"Hey, Rach," said Finn. "…Just a sec." He held the phone away from his ear, turning his attention to Kurt. "Dude, where's your cell? Rachel says she's been trying to call you."

Kurt frowned. He hadn't used his cell phone in weeks. Then, remembering the last time he had it, he slapped a hand against his forehead. "I think I left it at Sebastian's house," he groaned.

Finn winced. "Uh, he lost it," he told Rachel. "…Yeah, okay." He handed the phone to Kurt. "Rachel wants to talk to you."

"Hey, what's going on?" Kurt said, unsure of why Rachel would be trying to get in touch with him. He should have braced himself for the inevitable Rachel Berry trademark long-winded response.

"_As you may have heard from Finn, my dads and I are hosting a sort of Valentine's Day dinner tomorrow to celebrate the ever-growing relationship between the Hudson-Hummel and Berry clans._"

"Uh… no, I hadn't heard that," Kurt replied. He didn't need to ask Finn to know that only Finn and Carole were going.

"_Well, Finn told me you weren't coming_."

"I'm not."

"_I'd like you to._"

Kurt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew Rachel always had the best of intentions, but it was frustrating just how clueless she was. "Rachel…" he started. "I appreciate it. Really, I do, but I don't think it's a good idea."

"_But—_" she started.

He continued, ignoring her attempted protest. "I wish I could come, and if things were different, I would."

He wasn't expecting Rachel to snap back. "_You listen to me, Kurt Hummel. This dinner is not about Finn and I – it's about family, and you are part of that family. Don't keep hiding just because you don't want people to see you._" She paused before thoughtfully tacking on, "_We don't want you to be alone_."

Kurt sighed again. He understood exactly what Rachel meant; she didn't want to give him the chance to go for the kitchen knives again. Still, he didn't comment on it. "Thanks, Rachel," he said diplomatically. "But I can't come. If I transitioned it would send your dads screaming for the hills."

"_That is a ridiculous and mildly offensive presumption_," Rachel said crisply. "_For your information, they want you to come too. In fact, they're insisting on it._"

Kurt stopped short, caught off-guard by Rachel's statement. "You— They know about me?" he stammered.

"_Of course,_" Rachel replied, as if the answer should have been obvious. "_They were talking with Figgins to try to get you back in school, actually. One of my dads is a lawyer – he was prepared to help your dad sue the school, but the court wouldn't have gone for it._"

Kurt couldn't keep his voice from rising a little. "Because I'm _dangerous_, Rachel!" he cried. He didn't miss Finn's wince.

"_Oh, Kurt…_" Rachel sighed. "_You're not dangerous_."

"Well, Eleanor and Craig—" he started to argue.

"_Just stop making excuses and _come_,_" she insisted. "_We want you there._"

Kurt didn't say anything for several seconds. Rachel had seen for herself how terrifying he could be when he wasn't in control, and yet she still didn't seem to grasp that there was more at stake than her perfect family dinner.

"_And I'll never forgive you if you don't_," she added.

Kurt chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, then exhaled very slowly. "Rachel, you couldn't hold a grudge to save your life," he said, smiling slightly despite the fact that he felt absolutely terrified. He kept his voice level. "But fine. I'll come."

"_Yay!_" Rachel exclaimed on the other end. "_Okay, then, I'll see you tomorrow! Can't wait!_"

The line clicked, and Kurt handed the phone back to Finn.

"What'd she want?" Finn asked.

"I'm coming to dinner with you, apparently."

Finn didn't smile, but he didn't look upset either. He looked worried. "Is that safe?"

"I don't know," Kurt answered softly. "I really don't, but…" He trailed off with a shrug.

"But what?"

"Never mind." Kurt flapped a hand. "It's dinner with my family and one of my best friends – how stressful could it be?"

Finn nodded, but he still seemed like he didn't quite believe it could go smoothly. And Kurt couldn't really blame him for that – the last few weeks had been an awful rollercoaster and terrifying most days. He didn't entirely understand why Rachel had sounded so excited once he'd agreed to come – she knew perfectly well he wasn't anywhere near stable – and then it hit him. She hadn't actually seen _him_ since before the bloodstain had been formed on his bedroom floor.

"You okay, dude?"

Kurt's head snapped up. "Yeah," he said. "Sorry. Spaced out for a second." He sat forward on the edge of the bed. "Let's get back to Shakespeare."

* * *

><p>It was by some miracle that Kurt was himself when the Berrys' dinner rolled around, and he nervously fiddled with the belt on his coat as he followed Finn, Carole, and his father up the brick pathway to Rachel's house, which had been cleared of snow. He was familiar enough with the place, but it felt different now, like the last time he'd had a sleepover with Rachel and Mercedes here was years before.<p>

Finn hung back as Burt rang the doorbell, clapping Kurt lightly on the shoulder. "Don't worry so much, dude," he said. "I'll keep Eleanor down if she decides to show up."

Kurt's breath fogged in front of his nose as he took a deep breath and released it. "It's Craig I'm more worried about," he admitted. Eleanor would frighten them, but Craig would manage to frighten and deeply offend them in the same sentence.

The front door opened, and Rachel and her dads were waiting just inside, bright white show smiles on all three faces. "Welcome, Hudson-Hummels!" Leroy boomed.

Kurt held his breath as he walked inside after Finn. As Leroy collected their coats, Carole gushed over the interior décor, and Hiram gossiped with her about Nate Berkus. Finn inquired as to where Sam was, and Leroy informed him that Sam had left early to help set up for Sugar's party later that evening.

"How are you doing, Kurt?" Leroy asked, his show smile not faltering for a second.

Hiram decided to interject before Kurt had a chance to reply. "Oh, yes, we're fully prepared for anyone that might make an appearance," he said.

Rachel gaped at her father and the Hudson-Hummels exchanged slightly startled glances. Even when people were aware of Kurt's alters, speaking so directly about them was unheard of. Still, if anyone were going to do so, Kurt supposed it would be Hiram Berry. Kurt had met both of Rachel's dads on multiple occasions, albeit briefly, and he'd seen that, while Leroy was the more flashy and musical parent, Hiram was even more blatant than his daughter. Although, Kurt really had no idea what Hiram thought 'fully prepared' meant in this case.

"Uh, good to know," he responded carefully.

Hiram grinned and Leroy quickly ushered them all towards the living room.

After being forced into watching a somewhat impromptu performance of _You're The Top_ by both Hiram and Leroy, backed up by a cheery and excited Rachel, the group relocated once again to the dining room for dinner. For Kurt, the meal passed slowly and miraculously uneventfully – he wished he could be fully engaged in the conversation, but most of his energy was diverted towards worrying that he might transition. He _really_ didn't want to mess this up for Finn and Rachel.

As Burt laughed at a joke Hiram had made at the Republican Party's expense, Leroy stood up and began to collect the dishes from the meal. "Dessert, anyone?" he asked over his shoulder as he brought the duck platter to the kitchen. "We have a _decadent_ German chocolate cake laid out."

"—That Leroy made himself," Hiram finished, taking a sip of his wine. "He's something of a culinary genius, but only when it comes to sweets."

"I heard that!" Leroy called while the rest of them chuckled. He returned from the kitchen with an intricately decorated chocolate cake, setting it in the center of the table. He began to cut and distribute thick slices. "Kurt? Cake?" he offered, holding out a small plate.

Kurt shook his head, holding up his hand politely. "No, thanks, I'm not really a chocolate cake kind of person."

Leroy gaped at him in joking astonishment. "How is that possible?" he asked. "You've _got_ to try this; it'll convert you for sure."

Kurt declined again, and Leroy shrugged and handed the slice to Finn. "I can't explain it, really," Kurt said. "It's weird, I know, but there's just something about chocolate cake in particular that puts me off."

"I didn't know that," said Rachel.

Finn looked surprised as well. "I thought you didn't eat it because of the sugar or something."

"Well, that too," replied Kurt. "In general, though, I prefer cheesecake, which is even less healthy but considerably lacking in chocolate."

Finn shook his head, muttering about his inability to understand people who didn't like chocolate.

The small talk continued, and Kurt fell quiet-ish once again, only taking part in the conversation when Rachel brought up the New Directions set list for Regionals. Inexplicably, he felt his anxiety levels slowly rising, and he twisted his fingers into his napkin under the table in an attempt to keep his nerves steady. He was fidgeting, too – he could tell, but he couldn't help it. Carole noticed and reached over to squeeze his hand.

As the conversation droned on, Kurt found that it was becoming harder and harder to concentrate, and it was damn near impossible to keep himself still. He dug his nails into his palms, hoping that the sharp pain in his skin would be enough to keep him in the present.

* * *

><p>It was a relief to have a normal meal with Kurt present, Rachel thought, suddenly realizing just how <em>much<em> she'd been worrying about him over the past few weeks. As strong as Kurt made himself out to be, Rachel knew that that strength only went so deep – she'd known that even before she'd learned about his alters. Kurt was strong, but he was also human, no matter how many personalities he possessed.

During dinner, Rachel sat across from Kurt for the specific purpose of keeping an eye on him. Finn was beside her and she was pretty sure that he was doing the same. She was determined to make sure that it wasn't too much for him.

Unfortunately, she had no idea what to do once she noticed Kurt's fidgeting.

She saw Carole reach over and grab his hand without disrupting the conversation between herself, Burt, and the Berrys, and Rachel wished that she were sitting beside Kurt so that she could do the same. Ignoring the adults' conversation, she focused on Kurt, evaluating every small movement he made and trying to tell whether he was going to transition or if he had already.

Her heart skipped when Kurt reached up to nervously scratch at his temple – his fingers were trembling. Rachel swallowed. She didn't know what could be making him so anxious, and she had no idea what to do about it, so she kicked Finn's foot lightly to get his attention. It was unnecessary, though – Finn was already watching.

"What's happening?" Rachel whispered as quietly as she could to Finn.

"I don't know," he whispered back, never once taking his eyes off Kurt.

Kurt swallowed and rubbed a hand over his eyes, his fingers still shaking.

Then, they stopped shaking. Kurt's hand dropped to his lap, and Rachel couldn't figure out how on earth his face had changed so much in just one second.

Before Rachel or Finn or Carole had a chance to do anything, Kurt spoke, and it brought the conversation at the table to a screeching halt.

"Franklin's been a bad man…" he drawled, his tone disturbingly high-pitched and flattened at the same time.

All eyes turned to Kurt.

"Franklin's been a bad man," he repeated.

"Who's this?" asked Hiram.

Burt didn't answer him and stood up. "Eleanor? Why don't we go outside for some air," he said, and Rachel wondered why he sounded so calm when his face was so scared.

Kurt didn't hear him.

"Franklin's been a bad man. Franklin's been a bad man."

"Oh my god," Leroy said.

"Is this normal?" Hiram inquired.

"Franklin's been a bad man. Franklin's been a bad man. Franklin's been a bad maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan."

Burt hoisted Kurt up by the shoulders and began to guide him back towards the front door as Kurt rapidly repeated himself. Finn also got up and went to help Burt, and the three of them disappeared into the foyer, leaving the Berrys speechless at the table. Rachel sat back, feeling winded.

"I'm sorry," Carole was saying to Hiram and Leroy. "I'm so sorry."

Rachel pushed her plate away. Her appetite was gone.


	34. All In The Fall, With Winter Coming On

_All In The Fall, With Winter Coming On_

Things were oddly quiet in the Berry household once their guests had left. They'd exchanged weighted good-nights and preoccupied thank-yous, and then Rachel had quietly retreated upstairs to her bedroom while Hiram and Leroy cleaned up. As he wiped down the counters, Hiram remained deep in thought until Leroy broke the silence.

"Well… that went as well as could be expected, I suppose," he said. "That poor kid."

"I know," Hiram agreed. "He always seemed so stable."

"It blows my mind that anyone could do something so horrible that it would cause that reaction," Leroy mused aloud as he filled the dishwasher.

"There's a lot of sick people in the world," Hiram replied. "I'm just grateful that Rachel's never been exposed to that sort of thing."

"Well, she's exposed now."

Hiram sighed and poured himself a fourth glass of wine. He leaned back against the counter. "I wonder if this 'Franklin' guy is easy to find," he said, and Leroy straightened immediately.

"What do you mean?"

"Leroy, whatever happened to Kurt was _definitely_ not legal. And I'm a criminal lawyer, so… maybe I should talk to Burt."

Leroy shook his head. "Hiram, your heart's in the right place, but it's not our business. If they want to find Franklin – if he's even real – then let them come to you. Don't push it."

Hiram made an absentminded noise of agreement as he sipped his wine.

"Hiram," Leroy said patiently.

"Hm?"

"Did you hear what I just said? It's not our business."

"Oh. Yeah, of course."

Leroy sighed and went back to stacking the plates into the dishwasher. "Best to let them deal with it however they choose."

* * *

><p>As it turned out, despite her crazy and deluded narcissism, Sugar ended up being extremely talented at party hosting. Admittedly, she might've had her dad hire someone to cover all the real details, but Mercedes thought that at least the gift certificates and cheese hearts were a sweet compliment. Plus, the party had been <em>crazy<em> fun. Nothing like last year's Rachel Berry House Party Train Wreck Extravaganza. It had also been the first time in _weeks_ where Mercedes had been able to forget about Kurt for a little while – not that she wanted to ignore him, but she did need a break from worrying.

Once the party had finally wound down enough to be considered over, Mercedes offered Artie a ride home and the two of them left Sugar and Rory slow-dancing in the middle of the floor, much to Artie's chagrin.

"I cannot freaking wait until the leprechaun is deported back to the Land of Potatoes," Artie said as Mercedes pushed his chair out through the front door of Breadstix and down the handicapped ramp.

She snorted. "Yeah, you and me both," she said. "His voice is fine, but he's only got two expressions when he sings, and the fact that his eyebrows dance better than he does bothers me a _lot_ more than it should."

Artie cackled as they walked/rolled across the parking lot to where Mercedes' blue Beetle was squatting. "Hey, didn't Rachel and Finn say they were going to come?" Artie asked while she unlocked the car.

Mercedes nodded. "Yeah, but they were also having dinner with both parent sets tonight, so maybe they got caught up."

"Or in trouble," Artie grinned. He pulled the brakes on his chair and hoisted himself into the passenger seat. Mercedes deftly removed the wheels from Artie's chair, sticking them into the trunk with the frame and seat (he'd carpooled with her enough times for her to know how to disassemble and reassemble his chair in less than thirty seconds).

"Don't get yourself down too much over Sugar," Mercedes said, plopping into the driver's seat and revving the engine. "You deserve better than a skinny-ass like her, and she wears too many bows anyway."

Artie snorted and said he would keep that in mind.

Mercedes' phone buzzed in her pocket, loudly singing "_Loathing! Unadulterated loathing!_" She hit the Answer button and held it to her ear. "Hey, Rachel."

"I thought you two were on good terms," Artie said.

"It's an inside joke; shush," Mercedes hissed at him. "Sorry, what was that, Rachel?"

"_I was just calling to see how the party went,_" Rachel said on the other end.

"It was fun; we missed you and Finn, though," Mercedes replied. "Blaine wasn't here either. How was the dinner?"

Rachel hesitated, and Mercedes felt her stomach twist. "_Well, um…_"

Mercedes sighed. "Oh, no, did he switch out?"

"_Yeah, but… I don't know. It was strange._"

"What's going on?" Artie prompted. Mercedes shushed him again.

"_He kind of got stuck, I guess._"

Mercedes frowned. "What do you mean, 'stuck'?"

"_I really don't know how to describe it, Mercedes._"

Mercedes swallowed, her heart clenching. Rachel Berry at a loss for words? A sure sign of distress. "Listen, Rachel, I've got to drop Artie off," she said. "But I'll go on Skype once I'm home, okay?"

Rachel agreed and hung up, and Mercedes pulled the car out of the parking lot and onto the street, driving towards the east side of town where the Abrams lived.

"So, what happened?" Artie asked.

"I'm not sure. Apparently the dinner didn't go so well."

"Man." Artie leaned back, watching downtown Lima go by. "After everyone found out about him, I looked it up. It's… scary."

Mercedes said nothing. She hadn't done any research on the disorder – she'd been too nervous.

"There's a _really_ short list of causes," Artie said, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"I really don't want to know," she stopped him quickly.

Artie sighed, still staring out the window. He didn't say anything else for the rest of the ride, and neither did she.

* * *

><p>The clock was nearing midnight, and Kurt had been repeating his words almost consistently for the past six hours. Burt was sitting in one of the living room armchairs while Kurt had been situated on the couch, staring at nothing and muttering under his breath.<p>

"Franklin's been a bad man. Franklin's been a bad man."

Over and over.

Over and over.

Burt tried unsuccessfully to swallow the boulder in his esophagus. He'd been sitting here watching Kurt since they'd gotten home, and with every passing minute he grew more and more grateful that Kurt's evaluation interview at the hospital was in a few days. He didn't want to send Kurt so far away, but over the years Burt had maxed out his strategies for dealing with it. At least Kurt would have help from people who actually knew what they were doing.

He didn't notice his wife entering the room until she pressed a mug of coffee into his hands. "I know you won't sleep at all tonight," Carole said, sinking onto the arm of his chair. "You might as well have some caffeine in your system."

"Thanks," he said, accepting the cup but not taking his eyes off Kurt.

Carole rubbed his upper back. "Are you just going to stay in here?"

Burt nodded. "I want to be here when he wakes up."

"Okay. Well, I'm going to try to get some sleep," Carole said, pressing a kiss to the side of Burt's head and heading for the stairs. "I'll come back down if I'm awake."

"Night."

As Carole disappeared upstairs, the only sound in the room was once again Kurt's hushed voice.

"Franklin's been a bad man. Franklin's been a bad man. Franklin's been a bad man."

* * *

><p>The moment Mercedes got home, she went up to her room and logged onto Skype, ignoring the fact that it was after midnight. Glancing for just a moment at Kurt's name on her buddy list (it had stayed grey for weeks), she moved the cursor upwards and clicked on Rachel's handle.<p>

_hey, u still up?_ she typed quickly.

The response came almost immediately. _Couldn't sleep if I wanted to._

_do u want to video instead?_

_Won't that wake up your family?_

_like i care._

Mercedes clicked the small camera icon and waited for only two seconds before the window opened and Rachel's face appeared on the screen. She was in her bedroom, dressed in her pajamas with her hair tied up in a haphazard bun, still wet from the shower.

"_Hey,_" she said, forcing a smile.

"Okay, spill – what happened with Kurt tonight?" Mercedes prompted, propping her elbows against her desk.

Rachel shook her head, looking down for a moment. Mercedes didn't think she'd ever seen Rachel this agitated over something that didn't really concern her. "_I really don't understand what happened_," she admitted softly. "_But I kind of forced Kurt into the dinner, and I wish I hadn't._"

Oh, there was the self-involvement Mercedes had been expecting. "Rachel, whatever happened, I'm pretty sure it had nothing to do with you."

"_I lied to him_," she confessed, making Mercedes' eyebrows climb skyward. "_I told him my dads were insisting that he came, but they weren't. They told me it was a bad idea._" Her voice cracked, and Mercedes was ninety percent certain that it wasn't the bad internet connection. "_I should've listened._"

"But what happened?" Mercedes pressed.

"_I don't know! He was fine for the first two hours, and then he—_" Rachel faltered, pressing her lips together and swallowing almost audibly before continuing. "_He just… just snapped and started talking to himself_."

Mercedes tried to ignore the sick feeling in her stomach. "What was he saying?"

There was a long pause in which Rachel looked at her keyboard instead of her screen. "_He kept saying, 'Franklin's been a bad man' again and again._"

"Who the hell's Franklin?" Mercedes asked, feeling like she needed to vomit.

"_I don't know. Maybe he's not real._"

"Maybe he is."


	35. Round And Round The Garden

_Round And Round The Garden (Like A Teddy Bear)  
><em>

When Kurt came to his senses, his face was mashed into the pile of pillows on his bed, and the room was filled with sunlight. He lifted his head and tried to open his eyes, but it was too bright so he groaned softly and pulled a pillow over his head. He didn't know what time it was or how long he'd been gone or even what day of the week it was, but he was in his own bed so he hadn't been sent off to the hospital yet. He was more than familiar with the feeling of disorientation after coming back from a transition – so familiar that he wasn't sure the feeling could even be classified as disorienting any more. He just wanted to sleep and forget about the fiasco he was sure he'd caused at the Berry house.

But, as he rolled over into a more comfortable position, two _very_ sharp pains on his back jolted him fully awake. He sat up in bed with a frown, reaching around his torso with his right arm to try to feel what was causing the pain. He hissed slightly as the movement stretched the skin on his back and made it hurt even more.

Throwing the covers back, Kurt stood and went over to the full-length mirror in the corner. He was only wearing a pair of pajama pants, leaving his upper body bare. He turned to try to get a view of the left side of his back. His eyes widened.

On his shoulder blade was a small round reddened patch of scarring skin that might have been mistaken for some kind of rash at first glance, and there was an identical one further down, near his lowest rib. Kurt had watched the Discovery Channel crime-solving shows enough to know exactly what they were.

Cigarette burns.

He gritted his teeth, staring at the burns and realizing that he would have the scars for the rest of his life. Somehow, he'd managed to treat any injuries the alters gave him well enough to keep them from scarring noticeably. His arms were covered in markings from Eleanor's fits, but you could only see the scars if you knew what you were looking for.

But these… there would be no hiding these.

Kurt sighed and went to take a shower, making sure to use cold water.

* * *

><p>Hiram checked his watch as he walked into the Lima Police Department on Sunday morning, wearing a suit that clearly stated he was all business. He didn't usually work on Sundays, and technically he was doing this in his free time, but he wanted the police chief to take him seriously.<p>

The previous night, while Leroy snored loudly, Hiram had stayed up until nearly four in his study, researching DID and its causes, symptoms, and effects on the internet and in the psychology textbooks from his own personal library (a criminal lawyer never knew when Freudian theory would come in handy). Contrary to what Leroy would say, Hiram _had _heard him say to stay out of the conflict. He'd just blatantly ignored the advice.

"Hey, Jimmy," he greeted the officer at the front desk, who was talking to some kid about a stolen bike. The building wasn't crowded – there wasn't usually a lot of illegal stuff happening on Sundays beyond random teenagers having fun with spray paint and possibly rolling joints. "Is the Chief in?"

Jimmy nodded. "Yeah, he's in back. You can go in."

Hiram thanked him and pushed through the swinging door at the end of the counter, heading through the desks to the police chief's private office and knocking sharply on the door.

"Hiram! Haven't seen you around in awhile," the chief said, standing up to shake Hiram's hand.

"Well, not a lot of murders and heavy drugs happening on Lima Main Street," Hiram replied.

"Yeah, you've got to go to Cincinnati for that."

Hiram laughed. He'd been working off and on with Police Chief Rick Chevalier for twenty years, ever since he and Leroy had started living in Lima. It was rare that his work took place so locally, however, so it wasn't often that Hiram had had to call on Chevalier's help.

"So, what can I help you with?" Chevalier asked, sitting back down and crossing his arms over his chest.

"I need to call in a favor," Hiram said, sinking into one of the chairs in front of Chevalier's desk. "I need an all-access pass to the Ohio sex offender registry."

Chevalier raised his eyebrows. "That's it? You don't need me for that – you can find that online."

"Only within a two mile radius of a specific address," Hiram countered. "I need everything."

"The _entire_ registry?" Chevalier gaped. "Do you have any idea how many names that is?"

"Rick, I've been a lawyer for longer than you've been out of the police academy – of course I know how many names it is," Hiram said patiently. "But I have a first name, so that should narrow it down some."

"Oh, sure, I'll just round up every single Joe on the list and bring all one thousand of them down here for questioning," Chevaliers shrugged. "What are you looking for, exactly?"

Hiram shook his head. "That part's private. But there can only be so many Franklins on that list."

"Franklin? Why would you have a first name and not a last?"

"You know I can't disclose information on an underage client without parental permission," Hiram replied smoothly. Technically Kurt was not underage _or_ his client, but Chevalier didn't need to know that.

"All right, fine," Chevalier surrendered. "You have any idea what this guy did?"

"The details haven't been disclosed to anyone other than my client's therapist, but I would have to guess either maximum damage or repetitive molestation. He'd be going for the younger kids – probably under ten."

Chevalier nodded. "Okay. It'll take a few days at least, but I'll have Jimmy run a check through the system, compile a list of likely suspects."

"Thanks." Hiram stood up, re-buttoning his suit jacket.

"You want me to send it in to your office?"

"Uh, no, if you could just call me and I'll pick it up myself."

"Keeping the client under wraps, huh?" Chevalier guessed.

Hiram nodded as he pulled the door open. "Protection is what we do, isn't it?" he said, stepping outside. "I'll expect that list by the end of Thursday."

* * *

><p>Kurt's hair was still wet from the shower as he yanked on a fresh pair of pajama pants and grabbed Robbie's least favorite shirt out of the drawer, carefully pulling it over his head and trying not to wince as the burns were tugged. He glanced at his alarm clock to make sure of the date – February 12th – and went downstairs to put together some breakfast.<p>

Carole was standing at the kitchen island, mixing cookie dough. She smiled as he walked in. "Hey, you. How'd you sleep?"

Kurt yawned and pulled himself up onto one of the stools across from her, resting his chin in his hand. "Pretty well considering I don't know how long I slept for," he said.

"About five hours," Carole answered. Kurt knew that she was so adjusted to filling in the blanks for him that she didn't even have to remind herself to catalogue the schedule of events when he wasn't himself. She would remember everything and then tell him once he returned, and it saved Kurt from a massive amount of stress (not that that made all the other stress easier to deal with, but still).

Kurt frowned and looked at the clock. "It's… two in the afternoon," he said. "Who was awake for that long?"

"Well," Carole said hesitantly, sucking a drop of cookie dough off her finger. "Eleanor was out for almost all that time, and then it was Zack. He was awake for about ten minutes before he crashed."

Kurt groaned. "It was _Eleanor_ at the dinner?"

Carole nodded apologetically.

Kurt sighed, crossing his arms on the counter and letting his head rest on his forearms. He'd ruined it for Rachel and Finn. Rachel's dads had caught a glimpse of exactly what Rachel was involving herself with, and they were going to order her to break up with Finn, and Kurt had _ruined_ it.

"Honey, don't worry so much about it," Carole said, and Kurt forced himself to raise his head. "Eleanor didn't break anything, she didn't insult anyone or hurt anyone. She didn't even try."

"Seriously? That doesn't sound like her." Kurt was now more confused than anything else. "How did you know it was her?"

"Her voice is very distinctive."

"I can't imagine she'd have much to talk about without insulting anyone," Kurt said dryly.

"She didn't."

Kurt's eyebrows snapped together. He could hear in Carole's tone that there was something more she knew she had to say. "Carole, what happened?" he prodded.

Carole sighed, moving the mixing bowl aside and pulling herself onto the stool next to Kurt. "Eleanor said something that we're worried about," she said slowly.

"Okay… what'd she say?"

"'Franklin's been a bad man.'"

Kurt blinked, then swallowed audibly. "What else?" he forced himself to ask, his voice shaking slightly.

"Nothing, but…" Carole hesitated again, lacing her fingers together on the counter. "Eleanor repeated that phrase, non-stop, for more than twelve hours."

Kurt stared at her. There were tears in her eyes.

"Kurt, this… this can't keep going," she said, her lip trembling. "Your dad and I can't let you live like this. It's killing you."

Kurt let out a breath. His lungs seemed to be having a hard time operating on their own. He knew Carole was right. He knew it was killing him, and it was killing him excruciatingly slowly.

That night as Kurt slept, he dreamed he was trapped in a garden maze, and that the vines reached out and grabbed him and pulled him limb from limb.


	36. Maple Syrup

_Maple Syrup_

After school on Monday, Finn took Kurt out to the Lima Bean for a change of scenery, saying he was tired of Kurt's complaints of being stuck around the house. Unlike their previous excursion to the coffee shop, however, Finn asked Artie (Blaine was out of the question and Rachel and Mercedes were both busy) to get there at least ten minutes ahead of them and scout the place for anyone they didn't want to see.

"_You mean, Quinn and Sugar,_" Artie had said over the phone with Finn.

"Yes, I do."

Finn's cell buzzed on the dashboard as he and Kurt pulled into the parking lot, Kurt nervously chewing on his nails and watching out the window. "Hey, Artie," Finn answered the call.

"_Okay, no sight of hostiles,_" Artie replied. "_That's a negative on the Queen Bee, Sweet Stuff, the Criminal Chipmunk, and the Hobbit_. _Over._"

Finn snorted. "You're using code names?"

"_Affirmative, Commander, this is a top-priority mission and high security is necessary. Sir, are there any more hostiles we should know about? Over._"

Rolling his eyes, Finn shut the engine off and nudged Kurt, gesturing for him to get out of the car. "Negative, Corporal," Finn played along. "Area's been secured; we're on our way to you now. Over."

"_Yes, sir, I have a visual on you. Over and out._"

The inside of the coffee shop was thankfully not crowded – Monday afternoons were usually slow, when people getting out of work really just wanted to go home and make their coffee themselves. Artie was sitting at one of the low tables surrounded by squashy armchairs, and he waved at them as they walked in. Finn told Kurt he'd get their drinks and went to wait in line while Kurt walked over to Artie.

"Man, long time no see," Artie said as Kurt sank into the armchair across from him. Kurt could see that Artie was startled by how short his hair was (and probably how exhausted he looked), but neither boy mentioned it and Kurt was happy to keep it that way.

"Yeah," Kurt agreed, leaning back and draping one leg over the other. "How are you? Mercedes and Rachel have been trying to keep me updated with all the goings-on at school, but to be honest it's kind of hard to remember."

Artie shrugged. "Life's been pretty uneventful since you left school."

Kurt smiled tightly. "Nothing quite compares to my level of crazy, does it?" he said self-deprecatingly, then changed the subject. "How are things with you and Sugar? Mercedes said you were into her."

Another shrug, this time slightly more irritable. "Rory got her with a pity party. Said he was going to be deported."

"That's cheap," Kurt replied. "Want me to have Craig beat him up?"

Artie shook his head. "Nah. Then Sugar might go for you instead."

"…Ew."

"I'll just run him over and be content with his bruised toes."

"Sounds like a plan."

Artie laughed, and Kurt could tell he was surprised by the normalcy of their conversation so far. He didn't know what Artie expected, but it was probably along the lines of rocking back and forth, eating his own hair. He was used to that assumption.

Artie bit the inside of his cheek, then hesitantly spoke. "Kurt, is… is Craig really as bad as Finn says?"

"Yeah." _If not worse._

"Jeez." Artie frowned in thought for a few moments. "But… why? I mean, why would someone in you act like that?"

Kurt shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine," he answered. "I've known plenty of assholes he could be based on, though."

Artie looked shocked. "Really? They can be based on other people?"

"Sure."

"I thought they were just really specific aspects of you."

Kurt laughed hollowly. "If I were actually anything like Craig, I would've killed myself a long time ago." He paused. "Well… I would've succeeded in doing so."

Artie's jaw clacked shut, his mouth pressed into a thin line, and Kurt felt sort of guilty. He didn't need to remind people of how close he'd come to falling off that edge completely. He glanced over his shoulder to see where Finn was in line.

"Kurt, are you okay?" Artie blurted.

Kurt turned his head to meet Artie's worried gaze. "In what capacity?" It was a dumb question. Kurt knew exactly what Artie meant.

"Every capacity."

Kurt's mouth twitched slightly. "No more than anyone else, I guess."

Artie raised an eyebrow. "You're dodging the question, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

Artie nodded and raised his hands. "Okay. I won't ask, then."

Kurt sighed, shaking his head. "No, no, uh… It's okay. I'm sorry, I just… I'm nervous about leaving."

Artie's eyes widened. "Leaving? Where are you going?"

"Oh, I… I assumed Finn already told you."

"No?"

Kurt steeled himself – he didn't want to start his goodbyes just yet. But he knew Artie deserved an answer. "I have to go into a hospital for awhile. There's a place in Athens."

"Athens? That's like three hours away."

Kurt nodded.

"Wow, Kurt, I… I don't really know what to say. Good luck, I guess."

"Yeah, that'll work."

"I hope you find your answers."

"Me too."

Kurt looked over his shoulder again to see Finn ordering their drinks.

Artie fidgeted in his chair, toying with the Velcro on his gloves. "Hey, Kurt, I've been meaning to ask you…"

Kurt turned around again. "Hm?"

Artie didn't meet his eye. "I'm applying to film schools and most of them need to see a movie I made as part of the application. Kind of a portfolio."

Kurt swallowed. He was pretty sure he already knew what Artie was going to ask, but he said nothing, waiting for Artie to explain.

"Well, I was hoping… before you go to the hospital… m-maybe I could make a movie about you," Artie stammered, confirming Kurt's suspicion.

Kurt wasn't sure how to respond, so all he said was, "Um…"

"You can _absolutely _say no," Artie rushed. "If it makes you uncomfortable at all, consider the plug pulled. I'll find something else to film."

Kurt paused, his cheeks sucked in. His first impulse was definitely to say _no way in hell_, but he was fairly certain that had more to do with the fact that if he said yes, Artie's safety might be at stake. Artie couldn't hold him down or leap out of the way like Finn could.

But then again, Dr. Goldberg had always said that in order for him to get better, then he had to accept himself for who he was – every piece of him – not only for himself but for the people around him. _It's only going to get harder for you if you try to hide it forever_, were the doctor's exact words. Also, Kurt did like Artie and wanted good things for him. It was unlikely that Artie would find anything else in Lima as interesting as eight people for the price of one.

"Okay."

Artie blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah," Kurt nodded, trying to hide how nervous he was. "It'll give your application an edge. And once you graduate and become the next Steven Spielberg, I expect you to cast me in every movie you make."

Artie laughed loudly. "Okay, deal."

* * *

><p>At the office, Burt was hard at work putting together a fundraiser for a cancer charity in Columbus. His assistant Linus was whizzing to and fro, answering the phone, organizing files, forwarding calls to Burt's desk, adding up the fundraiser budget, and answering the phone again.<p>

"Well, I can assure you that we'll do our absolute best with your generous donation," Burt was saying into the receiver. "Yes, ma'am, it all goes to cancer research and rehabilitation."

The phone at Linus' desk rang for the thousandth time, and he hastily answered with, "Representative Burt Hummel's office, how may I help you? …Well, what do you need to speak to him about? …Sir, we're pretty busy here today— All right, please hold." He waved a hand at Burt and pointed at the phone, indicating that the call was at least somewhat important.

Burt nodded and quickly wrapped up his conversation with the donor.

"There's a Hiram Berry on line three," Linus said as soon as Burt had hung up.

Burt frowned, surprised, but maybe Hiram had heard about the charity and wanted to donate. He was fairly rich, after all, if the Berry household was anything to go by. He grabbed the receiver and pressed the button labeled L3. "Hiram, what can I do for you?"

"_Hello, Burt,_" came Hiram's voice through the speaker. Burt could hear from the echo that Hiram was in his car. "_Listen, I wanted to talk to you…_"

Burt sighed. "Did Finn do something with Rachel?" He'd hoped he'd never have to go through The Talk again, because he was pretty sure he'd done a great job the first time around and he thought that earned him the right to _never ever_ do it again.

"_Oh, no, it's not about Finn._"

Burt paused. If it wasn't about Finn and Rachel, then maybe Hiram wanted to talk about work. "You want to talk about charity donations or something?"

"_Well, as you know,_" Hiram started, sounding slightly unsure of how Burt would react, which made Burt tense. "_I'm a criminal lawyer specializing in investigation, and I called in a favor with the Lima police department._"

Burt frowned deeply, now thoroughly confused. "What are you talking about?"

"_I got a list of every registered sex offender in Ohio by the name of Franklin._"

There was a long pause in which Burt had to connect the dots and figure out why the hell Hiram was calling him about sex offenders. "You what?"

"_I got a list of—_"

"I heard you the first time," Burt snapped. He was acutely aware that Linus had stopped working, distracted by Burt's aggressive tone. "We didn't mention anything about that kind of thing to you."

"_I deal with a lot of different things in my line of work, Burt,_" Hiram said carefully. "_Sexual abuse is not a new thing to me, and I know that it's the main cause of split personalities. We can talk about my breach of your privacy later. Do you want to find the man who hurt your son, or don't you?_"

Burt exhaled heavily. Dr. Goldberg had spoken to him very briefly about Kurt's flashbacks and what they might mean, but that had been the day Kurt had attempted to end the flashbacks altogether and once Kurt was in the hospital, everything else had fallen off the table. He hadn't even had time to consider the possibility that Kurt's innocence had been torn away before he even knew what innocence was.

Burt gritted his teeth. "Let's nail this bastard."


	37. A Loose Cannonball On A Sinking Ship

_A Loose Cannonball On A Sinking Ship_

In the cafeteria the next day, Artie rolled alongside the procession of students filling their trays at the buffet and snatched Santana, Puck, and Blaine out of the line, insisting that they sit at a separate table away from the rest of the club.

"What's going on?" Blaine asked as he set his tray down.

"Better make this quick, Wheels," Santana snapped. "It's spaghetti and meatballs today, which means Britt and I are supposed to be sucking noodles together right now."

Artie leaned in. "I'm making a movie," he said.

"That's it?" Santana said. "As fascinating as that is, my noodle date—"

Artie shook his head, cutting her off. "No, I want help from the three of you."

"Cool, what's the movie?" Puck grinned.

"I'm making a short documentary about Kurt for my college applications."

Silence.

"…Artie, are you sure that's a good idea?" Blaine asked softly.

"Kurt already agreed to it; I wouldn't be asking anyone to help out if I didn't have his permission," Artie replied, slightly affronted.

"Well, why us?" Santana questioned, all traces of her dry humor gone. She looked worried, which was an odd expression to see on her face.

"I need you three as cameramen," Artie answered. "It's unrealistic to only hire one cameraman and hope that the schedules line up, so I need more than one so that there'll be a better chance of someone being available when I need to film."

"No, I asked why _us_," Santana emphasized. "Why not Finn?"

Artie shrugged. "Finn's got enough on his plate, and I also want him in the documentary, but I still need to talk to him about that. Either way, I want to leave it open for him." He rested his elbows on the table. "As for you and Puck, you guys are both tough and when we did _Run, Joey, Run _two years ago you actually had good suggestions. Blaine, I chose you for obvious reasons."

Blaine squirmed in his seat. "Which were?"

"What are you talking about? You're dating Kurt – he needs someone there to help him feel better if he gets stressed."

"Actually…" Blaine fidgeted, looking away. "We're not together any more."

"Told you," Santana immediately said to Puck, holding out her hand. He grumbled, pulled a five-dollar bill out of his jeans pocket and slapped it into her hand.

"You broke up with him?" Artie said, hating that he couldn't really say he was surprised.

Blaine shook his head. "No, he broke up with me."

Puck's head perked up and he slapped Santana lightly on the shoulder. "Give me my money back."

Her lip curled. "Why? A bet's a bet."

"Yeah, and our bet was on whether Blaine would dump Kurt, not the other way round." He held out his hand until Santana huffed, rolled her eyes, and returned the money.

Artie ignored them. "Look, Blaine, even if you're not _dating_ Kurt any more, don't you still want to support him?"

"Of course I do, but he'll get upset if I go anywhere near him, and Kurt getting upset usually leads to one of the alters popping out, and I really don't want to watch that again."

Artie sighed. "Blaine, I don't think he'll get upset if you make it clear you just want to support him and aren't trying to pressure him into anything."

Blaine shrugged, still looking away. "I'll think about it," he mumbled.

Artie nodded and backed off, knowing that was the best he could hope for from Blaine at the moment. He turned his attention to the other two. "What about you?"

Puck nodded immediately. "I'm in."

Santana pursed her mouth for a minute in thought. "What happens if he has a fit? How are we supposed to handle that?"

Artie had thought about that, but hadn't come up with any very good solutions other than asking Finn to be there for filming. He still had to talk about it to Finn, and as far as Artie knew Finn still had no idea that this plan was underway.

"Well, Finn would know what to do more than us," Santana said once Artie explained this to her. "I guess I'm in too."

* * *

><p>There were a total of only ten Franklins on Hiram's list. Burt stood on the other side of Hiram's desk in his home study, holding the list of names. Resting on the top of Hiram's desk like a ticking bomb was a stack of files that Burt knew criminal records corresponding to every man on the list. Most of them were thin, but there were a few fat folders containing all sorts of lewd acts.<p>

Burt stared at the bulleted names on the paper in his hand. Ellis, Jefferson, Kowalski, Petersen, Shaber, Wright…

_One of these men destroyed my son_.

"And this is every Franklin on the registry?" Burt said.

Hiram nodded, standing with his arms crossed against the bookshelf on the wall next to his desk. "Every Franklin in Ohio that fits the bill. These are the guys who go for _kids_, not just minors."

Burt forced himself to suppress the nausea rising in his gut. "These are all convicted pedophiles?"

Hiram nodded. "Anyone having anything to do with kids under ten, with mug shots and case reports."

"The police chief must be a good friend," Burt said, dropping the list onto the desk.

Hiram flapped a hand and came over to sit in his chair. "He owed me a favor; it wasn't a big deal," he said. "Now, we need to weed out the men who beyond a reasonable doubt couldn't have done anything to Kurt. I was waiting for you before going through the reports, but each file has the offender's work history included, so that should tell us where they were each year. From what you've told me, we're looking for men who were anywhere near Lima before your wife's car accident in 2002."

Burt nodded, knowing that Hiram was much more familiar with this process than he was, and grabbed the first report on the stack – Franklin B. Alexander. Hiram took the file for Franklin Ellis.

It took only forty minutes for the two of them to go through each file and determine that six Franklins were in other cities or other states before 2002, and three of them were too young to have done anything at the time. The last one – Franklin Solokov – was living only twenty minutes away in Wapakoneta until 2006.

"This is him," Hiram said, handing the file across the desk to Burt.

Burt grabbed it and snapped it open, greeted with the man's mugshot. "This guy is practically eighty years old," he said, feeling like he needed to vomit. He scanned the man's list of convictions, his eyes widening. "_Thirty-six_ accounts of child molestation?"

He looked incredulously to Hiram, who nodded solemnly and said, "Fourteen of those were rapes. All his victims were between the ages of two and eight."

Burt swallowed. "He's in the penitentiary in Columbus."

"Burt, before we go in to attack this guy – and we may not be able to, since he's already in jail – we need to be sure that he's the one who harmed Kurt," Hiram said quickly.

"How do you suggest we do that?"

"See if Kurt recognizes him."

Burt narrowed his eyes. "Three days after my son breaks down over this guy and you want me to go waving the mug shot in his face?"

Hiram sighed, fiddling with a pen. "If you want to catch the man who hurt your son, Burt… you need to pay attention to the laws of the procedure. There's a very specific path you have to follow in order to accuse someone of this kind of thing, and if you skip any steps, it'll turn around and bite you in the ass, _hard_. You could lose your position as Representative. If you want to do what's best for Kurt, we have to be absolutely sure that this is the guy before we go any further, and Kurt's the only one who knows what he looks like."

"This is the _only_ guy on the registry who could've done it!" Burt cried, holding up the file.

"Yes, _on the registry_," Hiram said firmly. "The police don't catch everyone. They don't even catch a majority. There's probably a seventy percent chance that the man that targeted Kurt left the state, was convicted for something else, or was never convicted of anything at all. We _have_ to be sure." Hiram shook his head. "Let me rephrase that – _you_ have to be sure."

Burt tossed the file onto the desk, clenching his fists. His jaw muscles tightened. "You know Kurt doesn't remember anything about this guy," he growled. "How the hell's he going to identify him if he doesn't remember him?"

"Seeing the perpetrator's face will create a visible reaction, Burt," Hiram said. "I've seen it in almost every single case I've had that involved personal violence. Abuse, kidnapping, murder, you name it. The victims _always_ remember, even if it's not consciously. Besides, it's obvious that at least one of Kurt's alters remembers this Franklin guy. Otherwise he wouldn't have broken down at dinner."

Burt ran a hand over his face, pacing the room. He'd been so focused for years on just dealing with whatever Kurt was going through in the present that he hadn't had the space in his head to think about anything else. Finally, after several minutes of running over the facts and trying – and failing – to keep his own emotions out of it, Burt gave a heavy sigh and turned around. "All right, give me the mug shot. I'll talk to Kurt tonight."


	38. By The Banshee Tree

_(Wait For Me) By The Banshee Tree_

When Burt returned home from the Berrys' house, Franklin Solokov's mug shot clutched in his hand, he found Kurt in the living room, sitting cross-legged next to the coffee table with several markers and papers scattered over the floor around him. Burt quickly folded the mug shot in half and stuck it into his jacket's inside pocket before sinking onto the couch. "Hey, buddy," he said.

"Hi," Kurt replied, adding whiskers to a shape that looked vaguely like a cat.

"What're you drawing?"

"A lion."

Burt yawned, scratching at the back of his neck. It'd been a long day. "_Phineas and Ferb_ isn't on?"

Kurt shook his head. "Carole said I watched too much TV and she turned it off."

"She's right," Burt said. "That stuff'll rot your brain and make it ooze out your ears."

Kurt giggled. "You're teasing," he grinned.

Burt smiled back. "How do you know? For all you know your brains could be starting to ooze right now."

"No, 'cause then _your_ brains woulda oozed out your ears a _long_ time ago. 'Cause you watch way more TV than me."

Burt laughed. "I do, don't I?" As odd as it might seem to others to hear Kurt talking like a four-year-old boy, Burt was perfectly used to Zack's mannerisms and actually enjoyed his company. After all, Zack was Kurt, albeit a version of Kurt that should have been left behind a long time ago.

"Hi, boys," Carole said, coming down from the stairs with a basket of laundry in her hands. "How was your day, Burt?"

"Fine; you seen Finn?"

"He went out with a couple of Glee friends," Carole said before heading to the basement. Burt stood up to follow her.

"Where you going?" Kurt asked. "I'm almost done drawing Simba."

"You can show me in a few minutes, okay?" Burt told him. "I have to talk to Carole about something."

"Okay."

Burt left Kurt in the living room and went down to the basement after his wife. Carole was in front of the washing machine, turning Finn's clothes right-side-out. She smiled as he came over. "Long day?" she said. "You look tired."

He pulled the mug shot of Franklin Solokov out of his pocket and unfolded it. "Carole," he said. "This is him. This is Franklin."

Carole froze, staring at the photograph. "You—?" she started, her eyes suddenly brimming. "Where did you find that?"

"Hiram called me up," he answered. "He had some connections and he got a list of all the sex offenders who could have done it. This guy was the only one in the area at the time."

Carole had dropped Finn's shirt back into the basket. "Wh-where is he? Do you know?"

"He's in the state penitentiary in Columbus," Burt said solemnly. "Carole… he's a convicted pedophile. He's in for life on _thirty-six_ incidents involving boys under the age of eight."

"Oh my god," Carole breathed, still staring at the photo. "What are you going to do?"

Burt set his jaw, folding the mug shot back into his pocket. "If I had my druthers I'd go straight into that prison and beat his ass to death with a crowbar," he said. "But Hiram knows the law better than me, and he says we've got to make sure it's him first. I have to see if Kurt recognizes him."

Carole swallowed, her eyes widening. "Are you sure you want to subject Kurt to that?"

"Of course I don't. But it's the only way to know for sure," he replied. "Even if Kurt doesn't recognize him, one of the alters will. It'll trigger something."

"You mean Zack."

Burt sighed, nodding. "Him or Eleanor. She seems to remember too."

"Zack's awake now, Burt," Carole said. "You should do it quickly. Don't show it to Kurt – he won't want to remember this."

Burt let out a long breath, knowing she was right. Really, he was just stalling. "I know," he said.

Carole took his hand in hers. "You want me with you?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Okay." She gave him a kiss on the cheek and then the two of them went back upstairs, leaving the laundry forgotten. "Zack, honey?" Carole said, sitting down on the couch. Burt sat stiffly on the armchair beside it.

Kurt looked up from his coloring. "What?"

"Burt and I want to talk to you about something."

He put his marker down and leaned back on his hands. "Okay."

Burt felt his heart skip as he pulled the photograph out from his jacket. "Can you tell me if you recognize this man?"

Kurt rolled onto his knees, leaning closer to the picture. "No," he said a few moments later.

Burt's eyebrows snapped together. "No?" he echoed.

"He kinda looks like Santa," he observed.

"Zack, I need you to think _really_ hard," Burt said. "Have you _ever_ seen this man before?"

Kurt shook his head, entirely unperturbed. "No."

Burt exchanged a look with Carole. He'd been wrong. He had nothing.

* * *

><p>Kurt's lungs weren't opening properly. His heart was racing and he was face-down, hurting <em>everywhere<em>. The pain wasn't like anything he'd experienced before – it was sharper than a knife and radiating from his gut all the way to his fingertips and it was so overpowering that he couldn't move. He knew he was crying – he could feel the wetness on his cheeks – but he couldn't hear his own sobs over the sounds of his heartbeat and the grunts from somewhere above him. A massive hand was holding both of his wrists above his head hard enough to bruise, and the other hand was pressing down on the back of Kurt's head with so much weight that Kurt thought his skull would crack.

He _hoped_ it would crack. Then this would be over.

He wanted to scream, to yell for the man to please stop, _please_, but his mouth wasn't working the way it was supposed to and his face was pressed into the mattress so that anything he tried to say would be distorted anyway.

He couldn't breathe.

It _hurt._

The hand lifted away from Kurt's head and instead snaked below his small body, down between his legs and lifting him up. Pulling him harder against the knife stabbing into his gut. Kurt spasmed and squeezed his eyes shut, clamping his teeth onto his tongue because the man had told him to _be quiet or it would be worse._

Nothing could be worse than this.

But Kurt didn't want to find out if he was wrong.

His insides felt broken, like he was something made of glass that had been thrown into the wall and now the fragmented shards beneath his skin were grating against each other, breaking into smaller and smaller pieces. He could taste blood on his tongue.

He cried out when the man roughly turned him over, making the glass splinters in Kurt's stomach scrape and stab through his abdomen. The man's hand had blood on it and his large fingers gripped Kurt by the jaw, making Kurt's teeth ache. Kurt's breath blew over the back of the hand, and the man leaned down very close, snarling, "_Keep quiet and hold still_."

Kurt whimpered into the man's palm.

"_And watch the teeth._"

The hand disappeared and in an instant the knife was back, now ripping Kurt's throat apart. The glass in Kurt's head was breaking; he could feel it stabbing out through his ears. He tried to scream, but there was no air in his lungs at all. His legs kicked and he was rewarded with the knife pulling out, quickly followed by a sharp blow to the head. Kurt barely noticed it as he sucked in a huge gulp of oxygen just before the hand clamped down on his neck, trapping the air in his chest.

"_You don't want it there? Fine._"

The man flipped him over again, and Kurt squeezed his eyes shut and bit his tongue and tried to be somewhere else.


	39. Monkey Bars

_Monkey Bars_

The computer lab was empty on Tuesday morning as Artie rolled to the back of the room, where the A/V club stored their equipment on the designated shelf block. He'd spent the majority of the previous afternoon and evening writing up a list of questions to use in the interviews for his movie and then arrived at school early in the morning to sign out the cameras he'd need for the project.

It was Valentine's Day, but Rory had won Sugar fair and square (well… maybe just square), and so Artie was pouring all his energy into preparing for his film project. Kurt was leaving by the end of the week, so he and everyone else involved had a very limited amount of time to work with. Artie was already planning on just filming everything he could and then figuring out some coherent editing sequence with it later.

He was just stacking the two best video cameras from the school's meager collection (all the others were completely broken or slightly malfunctional in various ways) onto his lap, along with all their accompanying wires, when a voice spoke up from behind him.

"Independent project?"

Artie twisted around in his seat, his face hardening when he saw Lauren Zizes standing at the end of the last row of computers. He turned back around and grabbed the USB cables he'd need. "Your suspension's over?" he said idly.

"Got back yesterday," Lauren nodded, tapping two fingers against the computer table. She was nervous about something – chewing on her lip, clutching her books tight. It was an odd look for her.

Artie sighed, spinning his chair towards the door. He'd gotten so used to her being gone during A/V club meetings that he'd almost forgotten her completely. Her suspension had been longer than Jacob Ben Israel's, since she'd been the one to actually plant the microphones in the choir room.

"What are you filming?" she asked before he could leave.

His jaw twitched, but he stopped. "I'm making a documentary," he said. "About Kurt."

Lauren swallowed. "You need any help?"

"Not from you, I don't," Artie snapped, rolling out the door and not caring that he hadn't signed out the equipment.

He'd thought the conversation was over until Lauren followed him into the hall, shouting, "Hey!"

Artie was forced to stop again as she circled in front of him, cutting off his path. "Get out of my way, please," he said calmly.

"I just wanted to apologize, Abrams. Jeez," she snapped back, sounding more like herself.

"You don't owe me an apology," he said, his fingers clutching the wheels of his chair. "You don't owe _me_ anything. And regardless, I already have Blaine, Santana, and Puck to help out with the project." Technically Blaine hadn't agreed to it quite yet, but Lauren didn't need to know that.

She quirked her eyebrow. "You got Satan, the Hulk, and Frosted Mini-Wheat? They don't know anything about camera work."

Artie rolled his eyes. "Yes, and this is exactly how to go about an apology."

Lauren huffed. "Look, I'm _sorry_, okay? I'm sorry I bugged the choir room, but I bugged it in _freshman year_ when Berry asked me to. I switched the microphones off but then Jacob asked me to switch them on again to get anything gossip-worthy. He was the one monitoring the audio feeds – once the mics were set up I didn't have anything to do with them. And I didn't know that Kurt was… having problems, okay? I didn't think Jacob would find anything like that. I thought it was harmless."

"Well, it wasn't," Artie spat. He gripped his wheels and rolled past her, not even caring that if Lauren wanted to, she could easily lash out and knock him unconscious. He'd been in the same clubs as her for long enough to know that she thrived on people fearing her, but he was past that now.

Lauren did nothing, though, and let Artie roll away.

* * *

><p>Kurt was startled awake by the doorbell ringing downstairs, but figuring that Carole would answer it, he kept his eyes shut and shoved his head back under the pillows. The one good thing about his expulsion from school was that he got to sleep in for as long as he wanted every day. The cigarette burns on his back – which as far as he could tell had been seared into his skin sometime between Saturday and Sunday – still hurt every time he moved his torso, but at least the pain was beginning to subside and the singed skin cells were slowly being replaced with scar tissue.<p>

The doorbell rang again, and Kurt groaned into his pillow, forcing himself to lift his head. His eyes scrunched up in the mid-morning sunlight streaming in through the windows. "Carole?" he called.

There was no answer, and Kurt sighed, pulling himself out of bed. He rubbed his eyes and descended the stairs barefooted in his plaid pajama bottoms and grey wrinkled t-shirt. The bell rang a third time before he finally reached the front of the house and opened the door. His eyes widened.

Sebastian was standing on the porch.

"…Hey," said the Warbler, who was oddly not dressed in the Dalton uniform and instead was wearing everyday clothes and a heavy winter coat with the collar pulled up against the cold.

Kurt didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.

"…Did I wake you?" Sebastian asked, shifting from foot to foot.

"Yes," Kurt replied, finding his voice again.

"Oh. Sorry."

"Don't you have school?"

"I'm playing hooky."

Kurt's toes curled against the foyer floor, freezing in the cold air wafting into the house. "Sebastian, what are you doing here?"

Sebastian blinked. "Oh, sorry, I—" He reached into a coat pocket and pulled out Kurt's phone. "You left it at my house."

Kurt took it without saying thanks, instead asking why Sebastian didn't just have it mailed.

Sebastian shrugged. "I wanted to see if you were okay. I heard about the… the suicide attempt."

Kurt sighed, his shoulders slumping. He rubbed at his eyes wearily, then stood aside. "Come on," he said. "I'll make coffee."

Sebastian hesitated, seeming caught off-guard by the invitation, but stomped the snow off his shoes and followed Kurt into the kitchen.

Kurt began to set up the coffee machine (nowadays Burt tended to just get his coffee at the office, so Kurt was really the only one to use it), and noticed a slip of paper on the counter reading _Stepped out for a bit to go pick up some groceries. Call if you need me. –Carole._

Even though his back was to Sebastian, Kurt was acutely aware of the fact that the Warbler was watching him.

"So… are you okay?" Sebastian ventured after a few moments.

Kurt exhaled, steeling himself before turning around. "How much do you know about what's going on?"

"I saw the_ Grapevine_ article," Sebastian admitted, making Kurt cringe. "That's about it. Trent didn't say much."

Kurt swallowed. The Warblers knew. Not just Trent and Sebastian – all of them.

Did he have to be broadcasted to _everyone_?

"Well, there's not much more to know than that," he said, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed.

"Seems like there is."

Kurt stiffened, and Sebastian noticed.

"You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to," Sebastian said quickly with a shake of his head.

"Sebastian, you do realize that… whatever happened between you and I… it wasn't really between _us_, right?" Kurt said.

The Warbler nodded. "Yeah, of course."

Kurt exhaled heavily. "Look, I'm really sorry about what happened," he said. "I know you and I have had our differences, to put it mildly, but I never intended for anything that serious to take place."

Sebastian shrugged. "I owe you more of an apology. I was taking advantage of you."

"Well, from what I understand about Truman, it was more that he was taking advantage of you taking advantage of me, so let's just call it even and forget it," Kurt said flatly. He really didn't want to think any more about what had happened in Sebastian's bedroom.

"Who is Truman, exactly?" Sebastian asked.

Kurt frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

"Where'd he come from? If he's not you, then he had to come from somewhere, right?"

"I don't know where any of my alters come from," Kurt replied, having to force his voice to remain level. It wasn't all true – he knew where Tyler came from and he had a pretty good idea of where Zack and Schism had come from (though the circumstances surrounding the latter were still _very_ unclear), but he wasn't about to readily share that information. Especially with Sebastian.

"How many do you have? Or is that not an okay question?"

"It's fine, I guess," Kurt said. "I have seven, not including myself."

"Jesus."

Kurt shrugged, purposefully giving the impression that it didn't bother him. He wondered how transparent the attempt was.

The coffee machine beeped cheerily behind him, and he turned around to pour a cup for himself and another for Sebastian.

"_KURT!_"

Kurt jumped, jolted by Sebastian's abrupt shout, and quickly lifted the coffee pot so that it wasn't spilling. He didn't know how, but time had skipped ahead several seconds. Sebastian was now standing beside him rather than on the other side of the counter island, and the coffee Kurt had been pouring had completely overflowed, spilling across the counter and dripping onto the floor. He shakily set the coffee pot down and grabbed a sponge from the sink.

"Sorry," he mumbled, keeping his head down as he cleaned the coffee off the linoleum floor. "Guess I spaced out."

He could feel Sebastian staring at him. "Stop it," he snapped without looking up.

Sebastian averted his eyes.

Kurt straightened, wringing the sponge out into the sink. He braced his hands against the counter, looking out the window so that he wouldn't have to look at Sebastian.

"So, are you okay?" Sebastian repeated. "You never actually said."

Kurt said nothing for a long time, studying the thick layer of snow coating the world outside. Two months ago, he'd thought that he'd be spending Valentine's Day with his boyfriend for the first time, enjoying some semblance of a normal life. Instead, he was about to be handed over to the men in white coats, and he was spending Valentine's Day standing in his pajamas with spilled coffee on the counter and the guy he hated most in his kitchen. Kurt thought he'd learned a long time ago to not take anything for granted.

"Kurt?" Sebastian prodded. "You still here?"

"I'm the most messed up person you'll ever meet."

Sebastian didn't say anything.

Finally, Kurt forced himself to turn around and make eye contact. "You should probably go," he said tightly. He could feel a stretching in the back of his head where Eleanor was beating against the walls of her compartment, but he didn't want Sebastian to know that. It felt almost like there was a tightly coiled spring in his head that he was trying to keep compressed, and he could tell he was failing.

Sebastian gave a small nod, turning towards the door. He hesitated before leaving. "Kurt?"

Kurt tensed, trying to keep Eleanor in her place. "What?"

"I'm sorry, okay? Not just for… what happened, but for everything. I treated you and Blaine like crap."

Kurt nodded, a little too focused on the conflict in his own head. "Is that all?"

"Yeah. I guess it is."

Kurt waited until Sebastian's car had pulled out before stepping back. The spring released, and everything went black.


	40. Outrun The Gun

_Outrun The Gun_

By this point, Kurt had lost control of his body often enough to be well-adjusted to the physical confines he experienced in his own head. Ever since he was little, he'd imagined the inside of his mind to look like the playground near his old house that his mother used to take him to before she died. As the different pieces of himself drifted further apart over the years, the playground began to manifest more solidly – like an actual dream rather than a fleeting fantasy – and the alters eventually showed up to populate it.

Once Kurt had lost sight of Sebastian's car pulling out of the driveway, he felt the familiar blackness wrap itself around his mouth and nose, cutting off his air. He stopped breathing only for a few seconds, though, and when he opened his eyes he was sitting on a swing in his playground. The sky overhead was blue but was quickly turning grey as the clouds rapidly swelled.

The rest of the alters were scattered around the area – none of them _him_ but all bearing a face and body identical to his own. He could see Craig slouching on a bench on the other side of the slide, Tyler crouching in the sandbox playing with Raleigh, and Eleanor off to his right tossing rocks at a squirrel in a tree. Schism was lying half-curled inside the cage of the jungle gym, in the same position as always.

Robbie walked up then, sinking onto the swing next to Kurt. "Bad day?" he said.

Kurt nodded, watching Truman do pull-ups on the monkey bars. No matter how often he witnessed it, it was unsettling to see someone physically identical to himself act so differently, but he supposed that was something akin to what his family felt every time he disappeared.

"Where's Zack?" he asked, noticing that there was no giggling Kurt-incarnate running in circles round the playground.

Robbie glanced up at the darkening sky. "Must be up top," he said.

"Well, at least it's not Eleanor," Kurt sighed, leaning his head against the swing chain. "I was sure she'd take over."

"Yeah, she was yelling at you a few minutes ago, but I guess Zack got there first."

Kurt chuckled dryly, relieved that he didn't have to be on edge. He was always anxious in this otherwise peaceful place if he knew Eleanor was in control, doing god-knows-what with his body without regret. The same went for Truman, and Craig on occasion. But Kurt knew he didn't have to worry about Zack.

"Eleanor yelling at me when I'm not here?" he said. "What does that even look like?"

"Oh, you know," Robbie shrugged. "Screaming, throwing rocks at the sky like it'll do a fucking ounce of good. The usual."

"I guess she's got to let it out somewhere," Kurt mused, watching a thick bank of dark clouds roll over the sun. "And better she does it here than out there."

Eleanor seemed to have grown bored with the squirrel and had moved on to tossing pieces of gravel at Tyler, laughing when he complained.

"Ow! Stop it!" Tyler yelped.

Eleanor snickered and lobbed a pebble at his head, which caught him sharply on the temple. Kurt sighed and jumped off the swing as Tyler began to cry. "Guess I'd better put a stop to that," Kurt said, leaving Robbie at the swing set.

"Good luck," Robbie called after him. "The brat's been cranky all day."

Kurt hopped into the sandbox and wrapped an arm around Tyler's shoulders, sending a death glare in Eleanor's direction. "Squirrels not enough for you?" he snapped.

Eleanor grinned. "They just squeak, but he _squeals_," she said, reaching in to jab at Tyler's shoulder. Tyler flinched, sniffing.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "You don't intimidate me, Eleanor."

Her smile stretched, and it was creepy to have Kurt's own face making that particular expression back at him. "No, but I intimidate everyone else out there, and that's what matters to you."

"Screw you," Kurt spat, annoyed that she was right. But if Eleanor was a part of himself, he figured it was only logical that she would know exactly why she bothered him. With a huff, he pulled Tyler to his feet. "Come on, let's do something else," he said.

Leaving Eleanor to her own devices, Kurt went back to the swing set with Tyler. "Can you push me and Raleigh?" Tyler asked, sitting on the swing formerly occupied by Kurt. Robbie was still sitting on the other one.

Kurt smiled and did as Tyler asked, struggling to push the weight. "You'd think being eight years old would make him lighter," Kurt commented.

"Only his mind," Robbie snorted.

Tyler laughed along with Kurt, though Kurt was fairly sure that Tyler wasn't sure what they were laughing at. He didn't care to explain it – it was rare to see Tyler smile and even rarer to hear him laugh, so Kurt figured he'd let his younger self hold onto the feeling for as long as he could.

While Kurt pushed Tyler on the swing, Tyler held Raleigh out in front of him so that the elephant's worn ears flapped in the breeze like Dumbo. Robbie stayed on his own swing, quietly watching the sky.

"Don't you think it's weird?" Robbie said after a few minutes.

"What?"

"We never get weather here," he answered. "Not real weather anyways."

Making sure to continue pushing Tyler on the swing, Kurt followed Robbie's gaze up to the sky. Dark clouds were rolling – not just drifting, but swelling up and crashing over each other like ocean waves. Kurt blinked as a few raindrops began to patter the ground.

"It's raining!" Tyler exclaimed.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Robbie remarked. He didn't seem to be paying any real attention to Tyler, though, and the comment had sounded more reflexive than anything else. "I don't like this," he said.

Kurt didn't need to ask why Robbie was uneasy. Having any weather at the playground beyond a sparsely cloudy sky was bizarre, and there was an odd energy in the air as if lightning were about to strike the place where they were standing. The rain was beginning to come down more heavily, and Kurt told Tyler to go underneath one of the playground's platforms to keep dry. Tyler scampered off, and Kurt was about to follow him when a commotion from the monkey bars made him turn.

Truman and Eleanor were on the ground, wrestling with each other and clearly not playing around. "_YOU FUCKING SON OF A BITCH_," Eleanor screeched, pummeling Truman's abdomen.

It was obvious Truman was unperturbed by Eleanor's attack beyond mild annoyance. She was physically weaker than he was by a long shot – he exercised, she was eleven – and so he seemed to be toying with her more than anything else. Each time she hit him, he would only slap her hand away and give her a cruel grin.

"Think we should intervene?" Robbie said from Kurt's left. The rain was coming down harder – the two of them were already sufficiently damp, along with the other alters still out in the open.

"I'm not sure," Kurt admitted. "I mean… Eleanor's not exactly controllable when she's like this, but Truman can handle himself."

"_FUCK YOU!_" Eleanor screamed, finally giving up on Truman's stomach and driving her knee straight into his nether region.

"Whoa," Robbie cringed as Truman staggered, bracing an arm against the jungle gym. Schism watched them blankly from inside, already soaked but reacting to neither the rain nor the conflict between Truman and Eleanor.

Kurt winced, seeing the pain contorting Truman's face. Every guy was familiar with the agony of being hit right where it counted; he knew exactly how Truman felt.

Then, something stranger than the rain happened.

Truman gritted his teeth, opening his eyes again and glaring at Eleanor with such pure, raw _hatred_ that for a moment Kurt thought Truman had morphed into Craig. Truman's lip curled, and he lunged.

Kurt and Robbie barely had time to react before Eleanor was lifted off her feet and tossed like a rag doll against the jungle gym, her head smacking solidly against the metal bars. Schism didn't blink.

Eleanor fell to the ground, sobbing, and Kurt and Robbie broke into a run. Truman reached down and grabbed Eleanor's head with the intent of bashing her skull against the bars again, but before he could do so Robbie collided with him and knocked him to the ground.

Kurt pulled Eleanor up off the gravel. "Are you okay?" he said. Eleanor nodded shakily, holding her head where it had been bruised.

By now, the lot of them (except for Tyler, who was still cowering underneath the platforms and watching the entire fight with wide eyes) were completely drenched, and the rain was coming down in sheets. Thunder rumbled from the roiling clouds, and Robbie looked up from where he was pinning Truman to the ground.

"I don't like this, Kurt," he said loudly to be heard over the rain. "Something's wrong."

"Get off me, fucker!" Truman snarled from underneath Robbie.

"Fuck you!" Eleanor cried, now sounding more generally unhappy than angry. "Go to hell!"

Oddly, Eleanor actually leaned against Kurt then, sagging wearily on his shoulder. Truman growled and tried to shove Robbie off him, his face reddened and absolutely livid. Kurt kept Eleanor from falling over as a streak of lightning ripped through the blackened clouds and a clap of thunder temporarily muted all other sounds. Kurt could see that Truman was screaming profanities at Robbie and Eleanor both, but couldn't hear it over the noise.

Finally, as the thunder died away, Robbie yelled over his shoulder. "Kurt, something's wrong! You have to go up top! Get Zack back down here!"

"I don't know how!" Kurt cried, just as nervous as Robbie. "It's not like there's a ladder going up there – I'm either here or there. I can't control it."

Robbie was struggling to keep Truman down, but Kurt could see that he was losing the battle. Kurt pushed Eleanor behind him, tensing as Truman finally succeeded in shoving Robbie onto the gravel and driving his fist into Robbie's nose, hard. Kurt cringed as there was a wet-sounding _crack_ and blood poured down Robbie's face, dripping onto the ground. Leaving Robbie spitting up blood, Truman whirled around and headed straight for Kurt and Eleanor, his fists clenched.

Kurt backed up quickly, still keeping Eleanor behind him. Truman drew his fist back and was about to break Kurt's nose as well when Craig abruptly cut in, shoving Truman away from Kurt.

"You touch him and I will break your fucking fingers," Craig snarled.

Truman grinned, edging closer and looking eerily like a Doberman pulling at its chain. "Come on, Gramps, we're just having a little fun."

"Back the fuck up."

"Fuck you," Truman snapped, the smile vanishing. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"You know exactly who I am, asshole. Now back the fuck up, or I swear to God _I will slit your fucking throat._"

For several seconds, the only sounds were the rain and thunder. Kurt stared as Craig clenched his fists and Truman seemed to debate whether or not it was worth it. Eleanor remained frozen.

Finally, Truman let out a growl of frustration and stormed off in the other direction. Lightning cracked through the clouds again, reaching down and ensnaring its tendrils around a nearby tree, which burst into flames. Tyler screamed from his shelter, hugging Raleigh tightly.

"Come on," Kurt said to Eleanor, ushering her to the platform where Tyler was hiding. He pushed her out of the rain and went back to pull Robbie to his feet. There was a widening bloodstain soaking the front of Robbie's shirt from his nose, and he was clutching his face as Kurt half-dragged him underneath the platform.

"What now?" Eleanor asked, watching the storm.

Kurt told Robbie to hold his head back (though he doubted the bleeding would actually harm Robbie, since technically none of this was real). "I don't know," he replied to Eleanor. "I guess we just wait it out."

"What do you think's happening up there?" she said as the rain pelted the gravel.

Kurt looked up at the black clouds colliding and splashing over one another. "I have no idea."

It was only a few minutes before the rain abruptly stopped and the last rumble of thunder was swallowed up by the vanishing clouds. The tree that had been struck by lightning was still burning, but the fire was slowly dying.

"Is it over?" Tyler whispered, clutching Raleigh to his chest like a vise.

"I think so," Kurt answered, sending Tyler a smile over his shoulder even though he was still so nervous his hands were shaking.

Robbie spat a dollop of blood onto the gravel. "I'm gonna kill that asshole," he slurred through the blood draining back into his mouth.

"Let Craig handle Truman – then he might be less interested in beating up real people," Kurt said, still watching the sky. He was worried the storm would return as quickly as it had disappeared.

Before he could do or say anything else, the playground vanished and Kurt felt the blackness suddenly snatch him back. A few moments of suffocation, and then he sucked in a breath of air and opened his eyes.

He was in his own bedroom.

And it was completely destroyed.

His mattress had been overturned against the wall, his bureau tipped over and its contents strewn across the floor. His vanity table had also been tipped and the mirror smashed. The clothes in his closet had been tossed into the rest of the chaos, and Kurt could see that most of his jackets and scarves had been ripped. His alarm clock had clearly been thrown against the wall and was now lying on its side on the floor, but was still showing the correct time, if the light outside the window was anything to go by.

_12:48 p.m._

He ran a hand over his short hair, frustrated with the cleanup he now faced, and saw that his fingers, palms, and forearms were covered in streaks of Crayola marker ink in all different colors. He sighed. At least it was washable, unlike the time he'd woken up to find that Truman had drawn a crude depiction of male genitalia on his cheek in black Sharpie.

Kurt went to the door with the intention of going to the bathroom to wash off the ink, but instead was stopped when the door wouldn't open. He jiggled the handle, which wasn't having any problem turning. It wasn't locked. There was something blocking it on the other side. Kurt jammed his shoulder against the door, trying to move whatever it was out of the way.

"Zack, you're just going to have to stay in there until you calm down," came a voice from the other side.

"Finn, it's me!" Kurt said loudly. "Why is this blocked?"

"Oh, crap, sorry," Finn said. There was a rustling on the other side, and the door swung open a second later.

"Finn, what are you doing?" Kurt demanded, spotting a short coil of rope in his stepbrother's hand.

"I was guarding you," Finn replied. "We had to tie your door shut 'cause it only locks from the inside."

Kurt frowned, an unpleasant sinking feeling settling in his stomach. "…Why?"

Finn gave him an odd look. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Uh, talking to Sebastian," Kurt said. "Why?"

Finn's eyebrows shot up. "Sebastian?" he echoed. "He was _here_?"

"Yeah, he stopped by to return my phone, that's it. What's going on?"

"Crap, Sebastian must've triggered it somehow," Finn muttered, raking his fingers through his hair.

"Triggered what?" Kurt's stomach was beginning to twist in anxiety. "Sebastian didn't try anything, if that's what you mean."

Finn shook his head. "Dude, my mom was gone for, like, fifteen minutes," he said. "You were asleep when she left and when she came back, Zack was having some kind of freakout."

Kurt's forehead furrowed in confusion. Zack didn't have freakouts. That was why Kurt didn't have to worry about him.

"Wait, aren't you supposed to be in school right now?"

"I came home early after Mom called me."

Kurt's shoulders slumped. "It was that bad?"

Finn gave a small apologetic shrug. "It's fine," he said. "You're back now, and we got most of downstairs cleaned up."

"Wait, downstairs?" Kurt repeated.

"Zack broke pretty much every plate in the kitchen," Finn admitted. "…And he kinda drew all over the walls."

Kurt groaned, hiding his face in his hands. At least the marker ink all over his arms was explained.

"You okay?" Finn asked.

Kurt wanted to scream that no, of _course_ he wasn't, but he held his tongue and said he was fine – he just wanted to wash off. Finn followed him to the bathroom and stood in the doorway as Kurt scrubbed his hands.

"Don't worry so much," Finn said, utterly failing at sounding comforting. "Your interview at Appalachian is tomorrow afternoon, and they'll admit you and you'll be with people who actually know how to help you."

Kurt swallowed, fighting the lump in his throat. He'd almost forgotten about the evaluation interview.

"Do you really think I need a hospital?" he asked, his voice cracking.

Finn's mouth tightened. "I think it's your only chance."


	41. Pandora's Box

_Pandora's Box_

Since Finn had been called out of school early (none of the Glee kids had been told why, but they all could guess), Artie silently thanked the possibly-nonexistent God that he'd managed to talk to Finn earlier in the morning between classes. Finn had understandably been irked by the fact that the entire idea of a documentary surrounding Kurt had been set up without Finn's knowledge, but once Artie explained that he already had Kurt's permission Finn's annoyance was replaced by simple hesitance.

"Dude, I know you mean well, but Kurt's been having a hard time, you know?" Finn had said slowly. "I'm not sure that shoving a camera in his face is going to help."

Artie had insisted then that if Kurt hadn't wanted the camera, he would have said, and Finn caved and agreed to be there for the filming.

At the Hudson-Hummels' house that afternoon, Finn and Puck hefted Artie and his chair up the porch steps, Santana following behind with the tripod and the backpack holding the two video cameras. Finn had talked to Burt and Carole about the project – Artie was willing to bet that Burt was less than pleased at first – and had somehow convinced the both of them to sit for short interviews as well.

Artie wasn't surprised that Carole had agreed, but Finn had to have some _serious_ persuasive skills if he managed to get Burt to say yes.

"So, where's the nutcase?" Santana asked as she dropped the backpack and tripod onto the counter island in the kitchen.

"Hey," Finn snapped at her, his eyes hardening. She rolled her eyes, but didn't argue. Finn glared at her for second before calling Kurt's name.

Kurt walked into the kitchen then, his sleeves rolled up and a dirty sponge in his hand. "Hi, guys," he said, wringing the sponge out in the sink. "I was just trying to clean some of the ink off the walls in the living room."

Finn nodded, though the others looked confused as to what he meant.

"Dude, where's your hair?" Puck blurted.

"Jeez, Mr. Tact, way to be subtle," Santana sneered, sticking her hands nervously into her pockets.

Kurt chuckled, tossing the sponge into the sink and drying his hands on a dishtowel. "One of my counterparts was mad at me and she cut it off," he answered. Finn could hear the tension in Kurt's voice, but he wasn't sure that the others could.

"Let's set up in the living room," Artie said quickly, temporarily saving Kurt from having to elaborate. Finn was glad Artie had – Kurt would be revealing a lot about himself over the next few hours. No point in rushing him.

* * *

><p>Somehow, Blaine ended up at the Lima Bean after school on Valentine's Day. It felt strange to be there now – he hadn't been back since his confrontation with Sebastian, and he hadn't even bought coffee since he'd sat down with Carole. Trying to ignore the awful Valentine's decorations and merchandise, Blaine hastily placed his order and went to stand at the pick-up counter. As soon as he'd walked in, he'd looked around to make sure Sebastian wasn't there, and now Blaine scanned the shop a second time just to make absolutely sure that the Warbler wasn't watching him from a corner.<p>

"Hello?"

Blaine whipped around, realizing the barista had been trying to get his attention for at least thirty seconds. His coffee was sitting ready on the counter. "Sorry," he mumbled, reaching to the cup but stopping short when he noticed who the barista was. "…Karofsky?"

Karofsky gave an odd, nervous half-smile, as if he were unsure of how Blaine would react to seeing him. To be honest, Blaine had almost completely forgotten about the extensive and tense history between Karofsky and Kurt, so whatever gut reaction he was supposed to have was temporarily delayed.

Instead of quickly walking away or snapping at Karofsky like he might've done if he'd been less preoccupied, Blaine only blurted, "Since when do you work here?"

Karofsky laughed, which for some reason sounded a little weird to Blaine. "Uh, since two years ago? It's just a Tuesdays-and-Thursdays thing, though."

"…Oh." That made more sense; Blaine had always been wrapped up in Glee rehearsal those days, and the only reason he wasn't so engaged today was that Mr. Schue had taken the holiday as an excuse to give the club the day off. Though Blaine was fairly sure that even if it had been required today he wouldn't have shown up.

"So… how are you?" Karofsky asked lamely.

Blaine stared at him, confused as to why the guy who'd shoved him against a wall just a year ago was now seemingly interested in his wellbeing. Karofsky awkwardly waited for an answer, and when Blaine didn't give one Karofsky hesitantly asked him if he wanted to sit down.

"Why?"

Karofsky shrugged. "I don't know."

"Don't you have to work?"

Another shrug. "I get a ten-minute break for every shift. Haven't used up today's yet."

Blaine was honestly clueless as to why the hell he accepted Karofsky's offer, but only a couple minutes later Karofsky had hung up his cap and polyester green apron, and the two of them were seated across from each other at one of the tables in the back. Blaine turned his coffee cup anxiously in his fingers.

"How's Kurt doing?" Karofsky asked after a few moments of awkward silence.

"I… don't know," Blaine admitted. "He and I… we're not together any more."

"Well, I kind of figured that," Karofsky said, as if it were just common sense. Blaine was surprised. It was the first time someone had neither been shocked at the breakup nor immediately assumed that Blaine had been the one to end it. "But aren't you guys still friends or something, at least?"

Blaine sighed, taking a gulp of his coffee and trying not to acknowledge how it made him feel a little sick going down. "I'm not really sure what we are," he said, purposefully looking out the window.

"I saw Kurt in the hospital," Karofsky said. "He was pretty messed up."

"Understatement of the year," Blaine muttered.

"Are you okay?"

"Why do you care?"

The question probably sounded a lot harsher than Blaine had intended, but he was too weary to feel sorry.

"You know how much of an asshole you're being, right?"

Blaine's attention snapped away from the window. "What?"

"Sorry," Karofsky shrugged. "Guess not."

Blaine gritted his teeth. "You know what," he said, standing up from his chair. "Screw you. I'm sick of everyone yelling at me and telling me I'm in the wrong here."

He strode quickly towards the exit, but not fast enough to miss Karofsky snapping, "Yeah, well, maybe they're right."

* * *

><p>Puck wasn't really a smart guy – he knew that. And he was okay with it. There wasn't a lot he strived to understand, because there weren't that many things he cared about. The only thing he'd ever really tried to get was why the hell his dad had to have been such an ass, but to be honest Puck had lived almost his entire life without his dad so nothing had actually changed. It didn't bother him all that much. At least, not any more.<p>

Now, though? With Kurt? Puck figured he'd be willing to trade in his BMX to the Wizard of Oz just to gain some little spark of understanding. Nothing had ever changed in how he saw his dad – he was always a deadbeat and nothing more. But Kurt was different. Even before Puck had joined Glee, even when he was grabbing Kurt to toss him into the dumpster every morning, he'd respected him. Of course, Puck would never have admitted that to his fellow jocks, or to Kurt himself, but _man_. To face that kind of crap every morning and still take the same path into school? Another thing Puck would never admit – he was pretty sure that if he'd been in Kurt's shoes, he would've snapped a long time ago.

Which was why looking at Kurt now was so disconcerting. Kurt was sitting on the living room couch by himself, nervously picking at his nails, and Puck was really trying very hard not to just stare at him. Puck's dad had hit his mom a few times (okay, more than a few) and the expression on Kurt's face now was a little similar to how his mom looked afterwards, with bruises on her temple and "It's fine, don't worry about me, Noah," in her mouth. But Kurt's face was so much worse.

Artie was sitting in his wheelchair right in front of Puck, and Santana was standing in front of the TV with one of the cameras in her hands (Puck held the other one). Finn was sitting just off to the side, keeping an eye on Kurt while Artie fiddled with the few sheets of paper in his lap.

"Okay," Artie finally said, breaking the silence. "I think we're set to go. You ready, Kurt?"

Kurt nodded, his nails clicking against each other.

Puck and Santana took their cue to switch on the cameras, focusing on Kurt from the angles Artie had dictated during their setup.

"Okay, roll cameras," Artie ordered, and Puck hit the Record button. He didn't miss how Kurt tensed up slightly.

Artie clasped his hands in his lap and began reading the questions from his notes. "First off, could you state your full name and age?"

"Kurt Alexander Hummel. I'm eighteen years old."

"How old were you when you were diagnosed?"

"About twelve, I think? I'm not entirely sure."

Puck frowned, watching Kurt through the viewfinder. How messed up did Kurt have to be if he couldn't remember when something that important took place?

"It was an early diagnosis; I know that much," Kurt continued, still picking at his nails. "Most doctors don't figure out what's happening until the person's at least in their twenties."

Artie took this in stride, and Puck couldn't help but be slightly amazed at how calmly Artie was portraying the role of the interviewer. "Why do you think it was so early?"

Kurt chewed on his lip. "The earlier the abuse, the less time it takes for the alters to show up."

Puck swallowed and forced himself to remain still and quiet as Artie pushed through his interrogation, question after question. The more Kurt talked, the more Puck wanted to simultaneously vomit and punch a wall. It was astonishing how often the answers were "I don't remember," "I don't know," and "Tyler has those memories; not me." Puck felt relieved when Artie finally said that Kurt's interview was done.

His stomach twisted, though, as Artie added, "Do you mind if we speak to a few of the alters?"

Puck noticed that Finn didn't look shocked at the question – nor did Kurt – and he realized that Artie's asking was really just a courtesy. This had been the plan all along, and he'd just been too dumb to figure that out.

Where was the Wizard of Oz when you needed him?

"Robbie, we'd like to talk to you," Finn called, and Puck felt the hairs on his arms prickle as Kurt's eyes seemed to shut off like a computer screen powering down, his eyelids sliding down halfway and his head drooping.

Nothing happened.

Why wasn't anything happening?

He'd been okay visiting Kurt the day after Jacob's article had been published, because the only personalities that came out then were the little kid and the party boy and those two weren't exactly scary. Weird, sure, but not scary. Puck didn't want anything to do with the one who had been screaming Kurt's head off in the choir room.

Crap.

Why was Kurt just sitting there?

"Robbie," Finn called again.

"What's going on?" Santana asked.

"He's transitioning," Finn replied without taking his eyes off Kurt. "It sometimes takes a—"

"_Damn!_"

Every person in the room jumped as Kurt's eyes suddenly snapped all the way open and his posture changed.

"Fucking hell, this is the best thing I've ever woken up to," Kurt said with a toothy grin.

"Truman?" Finn said, startled and confused.

Kurt ignored him, his eyes running over Santana's curves graciously accented by her Cheerios uniform. She shifted uncomfortably, wrapping her free arm around her midriff. Puck didn't blame her.

"Seriously, Finn, did you just get the hottest fuckers from school to give me a surprise party?" Kurt asked, his eyes glinting. "Because if you set up an orgy, I am _so_ down with that." He leered at Santana, who looked away. Shifting his focus to Artie, he continued, "You're welcome to join too, Hot Wheels, but you have to leave the chair out of it. I'm not that kinky."

Artie coughed. "Truman, is it?"

"Can I take my shirt off? It's hot in here, and it's _not _just me."

"Actually, Truman, we're not here for… that," Artie said diplomatically.

Kurt shrugged. "Whatever. I'm taking it off anyway."

"If it makes you comfortable." Artie pushed his glasses up his nose as Kurt pulled his shirt over his head, sitting back in just his undershirt. "I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Ask as many as you want, Professor Triple-X," Kurt winked.

Artie ignored the quip. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-six. Pornstar prime."

Puck cringed behind the camera. He really hadn't wanted that image in his head.

"What role do you play?"

Kurt's grin stretched, not quite fitting the shape of his face. "Oh, we're into role playing now? Is that what this is? The reporter, the subject, and the camera crew all get together for a gang bang?"

"Um, no," Artie replied, a little forcefully this time. "I meant, what role do you play in Kurt's life?"

"I get him laid."

"Okay, then."

* * *

><p>Once again, Burt was agitatedly pacing the floor of Hiram Berry's home office, having paid Hiram a visit after he was finished with the day's work at his own office.<p>

"He didn't recognize the guy at all?" Hiram asked from his desk chair.

Burt shook his head. "There was nothing. No reaction."

Hiram let out a long breath, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepling his fingers in front of his chin in thought. "Burt, do you want to find this man?"

_I want to find him and bury him. I want to break every single bone in his body. I want to tear out his lungs and see just how twisted his insides are._

"Yes."

"Then you're going to have to talk to Kurt."

Burt stopped his pacing. "I am not forcing my son to relive any of what this psycho did to him."

"You may have to," Hiram said. "You can't have your cake and eat it too, Burt. Not in this situation. If you want to find him, you need more information, and the only person in possession of anything that might help is Kurt."

"I can't ask Kurt to do that. It could end up with him getting hurt again."

"He's already hurt, Burt," Hiram said evenly. He held his hands up placatingly. "I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job as a parent. But think of how much pain he's going to endure in his life if he's not able to heal as soon as possible?"

"That's what the hospital is for."

Hiram shook his head. "It doesn't matter what kind of problem you're talking about – nothing is going to make it go away without confronting the problem's origins. It's simple logic. The nature of the human mind. You have to get rid of the roots before you can kill the weed."


	42. Quiet Houses

_Quiet Houses_

Blaine spent the rest of Valentine's Day locked up in his room and not speaking to his parents. His mother knocked on the door to ask him if he wanted dinner, but he pretended to be asleep. He wasn't hungry anyways.

He stayed awake for most of the night, sleeping fitfully for only an hour and a half or so in the _very_ early morning. Once the sunlight began to poke through the blinds on his window, though, he quickly decided that he wasn't going to school.

"Blaine, please talk to me," his mother greeted him in lieu of a 'good morning' as he sat down to breakfast.

"There's nothing to talk about," Blaine replied without looking up from his pancakes. His mother only laid out a real breakfast when she was trying to connect with her kids (it had become tradition as soon as Cooper entered his sullen adolescent stage and started toking up in the garage), and Blaine didn't have to meet her eye to know how worried she looked.

"Blaine," she said, and Blaine's head snapped up. He'd never heard her use that tone. "Don't lie to me."

He exhaled and sat back, dropping his silverware onto his plate with a _clank_.

"I know you don't want to talk about it, but I need to know if you're all right," she insisted. He didn't answer, instead studying the grain of the table. "Blaine, I can _tell_. I can tell every time you lie, whether it's about something going on at school or about issues with Dad or what you and Kurt were doing up in your room."

He bristled at the mention of Kurt, but his mother was still talking.

"I let you get away with it, though, and maybe I shouldn't, but you've always been so desperate to be independent. I thought that if you could solve enough problems on your own that you'd be okay." She tucked her hair behind her ear. "But this, whatever it is, is really hurting you and I think I've let you get away with too many lies. You need to talk to me now."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

He crossed his arms, still staring at the table. "Because of Dad, okay?" he snapped. "You tell him everything."

"Honey, he's your father," she replied sternly. "But, if it's really that important to you, then I won't say anything to him. I promise."

Blaine finally raised his head, trying to figure out from his mother's expression if she was likely to back out of the promise. He knew she wasn't lying – she always told the truth. But most of the time her truth didn't stay true for very long.

"Please, Bumble," she said.

He sighed, his limbs feeling heavier than they should be. "Kurt broke up with me," he admitted quietly.

"Oh, honey." His mother stood up and moved to the chair right next to him, draping her arm around his shoulders and running her hand through his hair, which he hadn't had the energy to gel that morning. "Everyone goes through this at some point," she said. "And I don't know Kurt that well, but I know you, and if he was too blind to see how good a _man_ you are, then he just doesn't deserve you."

Blaine suddenly felt sick, like his insides were covered in slime. He quickly stood up and edged away from his mother. "Thanks, Mom," he said tightly. "I'm just going to… leave for school."

She smiled like she'd done him a world of good, and Blaine wanted to throw up. "You want me to pack up your breakfast? You can eat it on the way."

He shook his head and grabbed his bag, coat, and car keys, rushing out of the house and leaving his mother with two full plates of pancakes.

* * *

><p>Despite the fact that it was February and below freezing, Blaine drove with the windows rolled down, letting the icy air burn his lungs. He had no intention of going to school, but he was headed for central Lima, driving by muscle memory more than anything else. He was fairly sure that he was going a little over the speed limit, but he didn't really care all that much and he wasn't pulled over, so he figured no harm done.<p>

He somehow ended up at Schoonover Park, sitting on a bench overlooking the frozen lake and watching a few people ice skate near the opposite shore. Blaine hunched his shoulders against the cold, pressing his thighs together for warmth as his breath fogged in front of his nose. A couple walked past him along the paved path cleared of snow, their dog on a leash. He and Kurt had talked about getting a dog in New York. Blaine had wanted a golden retriever, Kurt had wanted an Irish setter, and god _damn_ it, Blaine needed to stop obsessing.

He exhaled slowly, trying to get his nerves to stop crackling in his fingertips. It wasn't that he was mad as his mother. Not really. She was clueless for the most part, yeah, but she did want to help him; he knew that. He just wanted this entire problem to disappear. He wanted to go back to that morning when he'd woken up to find Robbie in Kurt's place and _not_ ask questions. He wanted to pretend he didn't know, and he wanted the old Kurt _back_.

Plus, the entire thing was really his fault.

Blaine hadn't caused Kurt's mental abnormalities, of course, but if he thought of every bad thing that had happened since that one otherwise insignificant morning in early January, it could really all be boiled down to himself. It was _his _poking and prodding that led to Finn revealing Kurt's condition, which led to their fight at school, which led to the entire school finding out and his humiliatingly public breakdown. It was just one giant chain reaction that started with Blaine and ended with Kurt going into a psych ward.

It was simple math. Two and two made four.

Blaine was so deep in thought that he almost didn't feel his phone buzzing in his coat pocket, but he fished it out and answered without looking at the caller ID. "Hello?"

"_Hey, Squirt!_"

Blaine blinked, startled. "Coop? What's going on?"

"_What, I need a reason to check up on my baby brother?_" Cooper laughed on the other end.

"No, it's just… you don't usually call me unless… Never mind."

"_Okay, fine, you caught me,_" Cooper admitted. "_Mom called me. She said you were having some problems._"

Blaine tensed. "What did she tell you?"

"_She said you got dumped. What happened? I mean… I've never been dumped, but I can probably give you some cheesy advice or something. At least give you an ear to talk off._"

"You know what, Coop, I don't think any of your post-breakup advice is going to work here, alright?" Blaine said as smoothly as he could manage, which was probably still snappish.

"_Blaine, I'm just trying to help, okay? And Mom's seriously worried,_" Cooper insisted, his tone strangely paternal. Despite the age gap between the two (an entire eight and a half years) Cooper had never sounded like anything but the sort of big brother who would spray his sibling with shaving cream just to elicit a laugh from his friends.

(Okay, maybe Blaine was still sore over that particular instance, but still.)

"_So?_" Cooper pressed. "_What happened?_"

Blaine swallowed, not wanting to discuss this with his brother. He did want to talk to someone, but there just wasn't a very long list of people he trusted enough to approach. He trusted Carole, and talking with her that one time had been a relief, but it just felt strange talking to Kurt's stepmother about him. He couldn't trust anyone in the Glee club to be objective, and Miss Pillsbury was plain useless.

He huffed, finally giving in. "Kurt was having some… problems," he said hesitantly, still completely unsure of whether he wanted Cooper to know about this. "He was having problems and he didn't tell me about them, so I got mad, and from there it just turned into a shitstorm."

Cooper paused on the other end, probably taken aback by the rushed admission and Blaine's use of language. "_What kind of problems?_" he asked, and Blaine let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, relieved that Cooper hadn't jumped into a speech of how good a person Blaine was.

"He's sick," Blaine said, chewing on his lip as he watched the ice skaters on the other side of the lake.

"_What, like cancer?_"

"No, I mean… mentally."

There was another pause. "_Is he depressed?_"

Blaine let out a hollow laugh, amazed at how insignificant the idea of depression sounded. If _only_ it were depression. Sweet, simple, easily-medicated depression. "You could say that."

"_What's wrong with him, then?_"

Blaine's tongue seemed to take on a mind of its own then, and suddenly he was rambling, spilling every detail and event that he'd been keeping secret from his mother. He talked and talked and talked, barely stopping for a breath, and surprisingly Cooper didn't try to interrupt at all. It wasn't until he finally ran out of things to say that he drew a shuddering breath and realized he was crying, earning several worried glances from the people walking the park path.

He wiped his face on his sleeve, blinking away the burning in his eyes. "I-I'm sorry, Coop, I just…" he trailed off. There was no response on the other end for several seconds. "You still there, Coop?"

A heavy breath crackled on the other end. "_Yeah. Yeah, I'm here._"

Blaine swallowed. "Everything's just completely messed up."

"_I really don't know what to say._"

"It's fine, Coop. Thanks for listening, but I really don't expect you to—"

"_Stop it, Blaine,_" Cooper cut him off. "_I'm your big bro. You're obligated to expect this stuff. So, why did Kurt dump you again?_"

"He said I took too long to decide," Blaine repeated.

"_So you're Hamlet, basically._"

Blaine let out an involuntary barking laugh, startling himself. "You had to make a theater reference, didn't you?"

"_Yes, I did. Look, Bee, you're right. It's completely and totally screwed up and way beyond the normal circumstances for relationship troubles,_" Cooper said, and Blaine had to stop himself from making a quip about stating the obvious. "_But when you boil it down, it's not all that unreasonable for Kurt to have broken up with you for that reason. I mean… if a producer offered me a role and I debated whether or not I wanted it for too long, they'd just cast someone else._"

Blaine thought it was a little odd how this was actually making him feel better.

"_But,_" Cooper added. "_It's also not an unreasonable solution if you just talk to him about it. When he broke up with you, he was in the hospital after a _suicide_ attempt. Personally, I'd stay _far_ away from that kind of drama, but you're different, and Kurt might be in a better place now that he's out of the hospital._"

"He's going into the hospital this week," Blaine reminded him. "A real psych ward. For a long time."

"_Sounds like he needs it,_" Cooper stated. "_But aren't shrinks always going on about the importance of a support network?_"

"I… yeah."

"_Talk to him, Bee. Even if it doesn't work out, you'll have done something._"

Blaine sighed. "Okay, Coop. Thanks. And… would you mind—?"

"_Don't worry. I won't tell Mom about any of this. I know how Dad would react._"

"Thanks," Blaine said again.

"_Talk to him,_" Cooper repeated. "_And don't forget to point. It's a very dramatic situation._"

Blaine snorted, rolling his eyes. "Yes, I'll be sure to use that particular piece of advice."

"_See you in a couple months, Bee._"

* * *

><p>Blaine wasn't really sure what he was doing. He knew he was going to talk to Kurt, but about what? He didn't know what he wanted to say, or even how he was going to greet Kurt in the first place. He parked his car at the front of the Hudson-Hummels' driveway and climbed the porch steps, having to force himself to actually knock on the door. He only had to wait a few moments for Burt to show up on the other side of the door's glass pane.<p>

Burt paused, glancing over his shoulder before opening the door. "Blaine, what are you doing here?"

"I… was hoping to talk to Kurt," he said, the explanation sounding more like a question than anything else.

"Now's not really a good time—"

There was a shuffling behind Burt and Kurt appeared toting two bulging garbage bags. "Dad, can you take these—" He froze in his tracks, his eyes jumping back and forth between his father and Blaine.

"Kurt, can we talk?" Blaine asked before his nerves could get the best of him.

Kurt's mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

"I think it'd be better if you left," Burt said, shifting slightly toward the space between Blaine and his son.

"N-no, Dad, it's fine," Kurt cut in, carefully keeping his eyes away from Blaine's face.

"Are you sure?" Burt asked. "You don't have to."

"It's fine," Kurt repeated. He held out the two trash bags. "Can you take these out to the street?"

Burt sighed, clearly unhappy about leaving Kurt on his own even for a minute, but took the bags and elbowed through the door. Blaine stepped aside to make room for him, then followed Kurt down the hallway.

"Seems like all I do nowadays is clean up after the alters," Kurt said wearily, and Blaine noticed for the first time just how much Kurt's posture had slumped. His shoulders seemed to be permanently curled forward.

_This is my fault_.

"What happened?" Blaine asked, not sure he wanted to know.

"Oh, Zack had a meltdown yesterday and destroyed my room," Kurt replied. "Lot of broken stuff I had to get rid of."

Blaine wasn't sure which was more upsetting – the nonchalance with which Kurt had spoken or the fact that what he'd said had registered in Blaine's head as something normal.

In the kitchen, Kurt dropped the air of indifference, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter island. "Why are you here, Blaine?" he inquired, keeping his eyes on the floor. "What do you want?"

Blaine swallowed, feeling his palms beginning to sweat in his pockets. "I wanted to see if you were okay."

"I'm not."

Blaine paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Look, I don't blame you for… saying you didn't want me around," he started.

Kurt frowned. "That's… good to know, but I wasn't aware it was something I should be blamed for."

"I-it's not, but—" Blaine stammered. He huffed, frustrated with himself. "I don't know what I'm trying to say."

"Most people have that reaction," Kurt said dryly.

Blaine's eyebrows knitted together. "Huh?"

"I render people speechless." Kurt's mouth twisted into a pained smile, and Blaine's stomach clenched at how terribly self-loathing Kurt's voice was.

"What do you want me to do, Kurt?" he asked softly.

"We aren't together, Blaine," Kurt said, his face hard. "You've been released of any obligation to help me."

Blaine's fists involuntarily clenched in his pockets, though he was aware that he had no right to be angry. "You really think I'm that kind of guy?"

"I don't know what to think," Kurt snapped, his eyes finally – _finally_ – rising to meet Blaine's. "You weren't there when I needed you, and then as soon as I sever the tie, you come begging. What kind of message am I supposed to glean from that?"

"Hey, first of all, you dumped me _after_ I told you I wanted to stay," Blaine snapped. "Second, are you ignoring _everything_ good about us?"

Kurt grimaced, and Blaine gritted his teeth.

"I _transferred_. For _you_."

"Oh, please," Kurt scoffed. "You didn't do that for me. You did it because you were so desperate for the perfect boyfriend that you latched onto me and ignored _every single sign_ you saw!"

Blaine blinked, subconsciously taking a step back.

"Blaine, nobody _transfers _just to be with someone in high school! That doesn't happen!"

"_I loved you!_" Blaine shouted suddenly, barely registering in the back of his mind just how much this argument sounded like something out of a soap opera.

"No, you _didn't_," Kurt yelled back. "You were in love with the idea of _fixing_ me, and you _can't fix me!_"

Kurt had straightened up now, his eyes burning and glassy. Blaine stared at him, unsettled by this new, agonizingly bitter version of Kurt that he'd never seen.

"I shouldn't have come," he said quietly, more to himself than to Kurt.

"You really shouldn't have," Kurt spat, circling around the counter island and facing away from Blaine as he pulled open a drawer and yanked out a trash bag. "I need to finish cleaning up Zack's mess. Please leave."

Blaine didn't move, glaring at the counters and simultaneously wanting to stay and run away and never see Kurt again.

"Did you hear what I said?" Kurt demanded over his shoulder.

"You need help!" Blaine cried. "I _want_ to help! Why is that so hard to—?"

"_I don't need you to tell me how damaged I am!_" Kurt screamed, slamming the drawer shut with so much force that it emitted a loud _crack_ and sat crookedly on its rollers.

Finally, Blaine lost the battle with his impulses, and he drew his foot back, kicking one of the kitchen stools over in exasperation. It crashed loudly against the tile floor.

Kurt's spine snapped back, arching rigidly where he stood.

"Kurt?" Blaine called, out of breath and with roaring ears. His rage had vanished in the span of half a second, replaced by a twisting, agonizing terror in the pit of his stomach. When Kurt didn't move or respond, Blaine edged around the island, more than wary of what might happen if he got too close. "Kurt," he said again. "Are you there?"

No response.

Kurt's eyes were wide, whipping back and forth but seeing nothing.

Blaine called his name again, reaching out to touch his arm in the hopes that the feeling would jolt him back into reality.

The jolt was not what Blaine had hoped. The moment his fingers came in contact with Kurt's skin, a bloodcurdling scream ripped from Kurt's throat as he thrashed at Blaine. Blaine leapt backwards and out of the way of Kurt's swinging arm, instinctively ready to defend himself against any attacks Kurt might deliver.

Kurt screamed again, sinking to a crouch on the floor, his hands clamped over his ears. His limbs didn't stop moving, jerking as if he were an ant under a magnifying glass.

"What did you do?!" Burt cried as he rushed into the room, immediately going down on his knees to pull his writhing son into his arms.

Blaine was frozen, staring at this… _thing_ that Kurt had become.

It took Blaine several seconds to realize that Kurt was actually screaming words rather than unintelligible sounds.

"_FRANKLIN'S BEEN A BAD MAN! BAD MAN! BAD MAN!_"

"Kurt, if you can hear me, I've got you, you're okay—" Burt urged loudly, rocking Kurt slightly.

"_BAD MAN! BAD MAN! THE BAD MAN'S HERE! BAD MAN! THE BAD MAN'S HERE!_"

Burt held Kurt's head tightly against his chest, glaring up at Blaine. "GET OUT!" he snarled.

Blaine flinched, stepping further back.

"_BAD MAN! THE BAD MAN'S HERE! BAD MAN!_"

"GET OUT!"

Blaine turned and ran, not allowing himself to breathe until he was in his car, driving away.


	43. Wagon Wheel

_Wagon Wheel_

Tina could honestly say that there wasn't much that scared her. She'd had a lot of problems with fears up until sophomore year (okay, so, not that long ago), but she must have had some kind of intellectual growth spurt between then and now, because she didn't find herself panicking over anything any more. She no longer stayed awake for hours at night worrying about a solo Mr. Schue was forcing her to sing, and now readily volunteered to sing in front of the group. She didn't have to duck her head while walking through the school corridors, and could even make eye contact with the cheerleader and jock population without_ really_ being scared of their slushies. Plus, she'd always been able to handle scary movies without so much as a flinch.

Scary movies were one thing, though. This hurricane surrounding Kurt was another.

She wasn't sure if the idea of Kurt being splintered into so many people was _scary_, per se, but it was hard for her to fully absorb and so she was having a difficult time feeling anything distinguishable about it. She couldn't quite wrap her head around it despite the fact that she'd been there with Mike, Artie, Rachel, and Puck, standing outside the choir room while Kurt tore himself apart. Mostly it was just hard to reconcile this new version of Kurt with _Kurt_. She didn't know what exactly had made Kurt break, so she didn't know if she had a right to be mad at it.

And, to be honest, she didn't know that she even believed he was broken. Maybe just bent. It didn't make any sense for someone to be _that_ damaged.

She supposed she was a little angry at Kurt for not telling them what was going on – she could see where Blaine was coming from, though she'd never say that out loud with Rachel, Finn, or Mercedes in the room. She didn't blame Blaine for being pissed off – she probably would have done the same with Mike, if that were the case – and even though she thought he could and _should_ have dealt with it better, she wasn't about to jump down his throat about it. It would only make things worse.

As for Finn (and Kurt's dad and Finn's mom), Tina felt bad. She liked to think she had a pretty good handle on Finn's character after spending three years in a mutual social circle, and more than anything Finn was naïve. Too naïve to be forced into handling a brother who screamed at nothing and cut off his own hair and supposedly morphed into different people at random intervals. Was it really any wonder that Finn hadn't been planning for the next year when he was so occupied with keeping Kurt from falling apart?

For the most part, Tina kept her opinions to herself. The biggest reason for this was that she wanted no part in the repeated clashing between Quinn and Finn, and she didn't want to do anything to incur the combined wrath of Rachel and Mercedes.

Considering this, it might have been a little strange for Tina to be spending Wednesday study hall at a library table with those exact people (except for Finn, who had Spanish class), but Tina made a point to _not_ be dramatic about it. So rather than purposefully taking a seat on the other side of the room and silently brooding over her history homework, she sat next to Quinn on one side of the table while Rachel and Mercedes sat opposite, and they all worked quietly under an unspoken truce.

Of course, Rachel was never one to let the elephant in the room slide, nor was she the type of person who glossed over drama, so naturally it was Rachel who spoke up and broke the truce.

"Mercedes, why haven't you visited Kurt?"

Mercedes frowned, lifting her head up from her Advanced Algebra textbook. Tina and Quinn both paused as well, all three of them surprised by the abrupt question.

"I… have," said Mercedes slowly.

"Not recently, though," Rachel clarified, keeping her voice somewhat low so as not to attract the attention of the librarian. "You didn't come with me when he was in the hospital. Finn says you're avoiding him."

Mercedes' face hardened and she dropped her pencil onto her notebook. "Why would I be avoiding him?" she demanded. "That's ridiculous."

Tina decided not to comment on how Mercedes was being a little _too_ defensive.

"Actually, it's not," Quinn cut in, and Mercedes' eyes snapped over to glare at her. "After everything that's happened, it's understandable that you'd be afraid of him."

"I'm not afraid of him!" Mercedes insisted. "I've just been… busy."

"Rachel's been busy too but she made time," Tina interjected.

"You're one to talk," Mercedes scoffed.

Tina sighed. "I'm not as close to him as you are," she said carefully. "I don't want him to feel crowded, and he'd prefer you over me any day."

"I haven't been avoiding him," Mercedes repeated.

"Fine," Tina said calmly, backing out of the debate. One thing she was good at: not pushing buttons. She turned her attention to Rachel, hoping to save Mercedes from some of the scrutiny. "Have you heard anything? When's Kurt going into the hospital?"

Rachel took the bait, and Tina didn't miss how Mercedes visibly relaxed once the focus was shifted. "His interview is today, so they'll know by tonight. I'll talk to Finn later and find out how it went."

"Why does he need an interview?" Tina asked, genuinely curious. "Don't they just admit people who need it?"

"Well, there are always people who are faking for attention," Rachel shrugged, running a bright pink Hi-Liter over her textbook. "And once they determine that Kurt actually has a problem, they have to make sure that they offer the specific services he needs."

"Really? I thought mental hospitals were more of a one-size-fits-all thing."

Rachel shot Tina an almost-scathingly judgmental glance. "Tina," she said patiently. "There's such a massive spectrum of mental illness that one hospital, no matter how large and well-funded, could never be able to treat everything. How can you be so narrow-minded?"

Tina raised her hands placatingly. "Okay, sorry. My mistake."

Rachel let out a little _hmph_ and went back to highlighting her book. "Plus," she added. "The admission doctor has to make sure that Kurt won't be a danger to the other patients. Or at least not so bad that they won't be able to handle—"

Mercedes lurched to her feet, not even bothering to pack up her things before she crossed her arms over her chest and quickly walked away, disappearing in between the bookshelves. They heard the library door swing open and shut a moment later.

"I'll go talk to her," Rachel said, already getting up.

"No, you stay," Tina stopped her, knowing that Mercedes would be more likely to lash out at an abrasive personality like Rachel. Before Rachel could protest, Tina was on her feet and exiting the library. Outside in the corridor, Tina caught Mercedes just turning around a corner to another hallway, heading in the direction of the auditorium. "Mercedes!" she called. "Wait up!"

Mercedes didn't stop walking, even though Tina was certain Mercedes could hear her. Tina followed her down three different hallways before Mercedes yanked open the stage door to the auditorium, letting it clunk shut behind her. Tina pulled it open and walked into the dimly lit backstage, easily navigating the short path past the rear curtain. She found Mercedes pacing the sleek black floor of the stage, arms still crossed tightly over her chest.

"You okay?"

"I'll be fine so long as you don't tell me to sing." Mercedes didn't even look up, studying her shoes as she turned and continued walking back and forth.

Tina sank onto the piano bench, her back to the keyboard. "I wasn't going to," she said.

Mercedes didn't respond, her shoes beginning to wear a mark into the floor. Tina sat silently, allowing Mercedes time to calm down. If she wanted to talk, she could talk, and if not, Tina would be there anyways.

"What are we supposed to do?" Mercedes demanded hoarsely after she'd paced the same line at least twenty times over. She didn't give Tina a chance to answer. "How the _hell _are we supposed to deal with this? It doesn't make _sense_."

"None of us figured it out, Mercedes," Tina said softly. "You don't have to beat yourself up."

"_Yes, I do._"

Tina clamped her lips together, pressing them into a thin line.

Mercedes finally stopped pacing, running a palm over her forehead and shaking her head. "Things like this _aren't supposed to happen_."

Tina didn't know what to say to that, so she said nothing, waiting for Mercedes to continue.

"I saw it."

Tina frowned. "Saw what?"

"Kurt," Mercedes replied, her voice cracking as she looked out over the empty chairs in the audience. "I mean… it _wasn't_ Kurt. But I saw it." Tina blinked, and Mercedes' chest shuddered as she hid her face in her hands.

"You saw one of his…?" Tina started, still not quite sure what Mercedes was trying to say.

Apparently Tina had hit the nail on the head, though, since Mercedes let out a small choked-off sob and nodded.

"Wh-when?"

Mercedes sniffed, wiping her face and finally turning towards Tina, keeping her eyes on the floor. "Last year," she hiccoughed. "We were having a sleepover at Rachel's house."

"Did Rachel see it?"

Mercedes shook her head, her lower lip trembling. "She was asleep. It was the middle of the night and I woke up and Kurt was just—" She was cut off by another sob. "He was s-sitting up and kinda r-rocking himself, and he – he had one of Rachel's stupid stuffed animals, but I just thought— I thought he was s-sleeping; I didn't—"

Tina stood up quickly. "Mercedes, it's okay," she said, drawing Mercedes into a hug. "Anyone would have thought the same thing."

Mercedes was shaking now, leaning heavily against Tina for support as she cried. Tina brushed her hand over Mercedes' hair. "I want Kurt back," Mercedes said wetly into Tina's shoulder. "I want him _back._"

* * *

><p>As soon as Finn got home from school, he could tell something was wrong. There was no screaming or yelling or smashing objects, but the moment he walked into the house, the air felt stretched like the inside of a vacuum tube. "Hello?" he called, hanging up his coat and backpack on the rack by the door. "Anyone home?"<p>

He could hear Burt's voice talking heatedly to someone, but he didn't hear a second voice talking back so he figured that Burt had to be on the phone. He went to the living room to see Burt sitting on the couch, phone in one hand and so absorbed in the argument that he didn't notice Finn's presence.

"—don't care what your schedule is! He needs to see you _now_!" Burt was shouting, his finger jabbing accusingly at the empty air. "We were supposed to take him to Appalachian today but I had to push the appointment to tomorrow because I couldn't even get him in the car!"

Finn tensed. He didn't have to hear the rest of the conversation to know who and what Burt was referring to. He turned and climbed the stairs two at a time, not bothering to hear any more. Kurt was probably in his room, and judging by Burt's words, Schism was most likely the one currently conscious.

Kurt's door was tied shut.

Finn's heart dropped. Not Schism, then.

Taking a deep breath, Finn approached the door and pressed his ear against the wood, listening for any sounds to indicate who was in control in place of his stepbrother. It was quiet on the other side.

"Kurt?" he called softly. "Are you—"

He jumped when something big slammed into the door, rattling it in its frame. The handle turned back and forth, the rope holding it shut going taut. Finn swallowed and stepped back.

He sighed, sinking down to sit and lean against the wall opposite Kurt's door. Guard duty was quickly becoming something too familiar. He briefly thought that getting his homework from downstairs might be a good idea, just to have something to do besides staring at the wall, but his brain was too tired to solve math equations and try to make something out of his history assignment. Instead, Finn crossed his legs, making himself comfortable, and pulled out his phone to text Rachel.

_hey r u home yet?_

Kurt's door rattled again, then there was a shuffling sound like dragging feet, and it was quiet again.

Finn's phone buzzed in his hands, and Rachel's reply popped up on the screen. _No, I'm in the auditorium. Trying to come up with ideas for Regionals. I don't know why Mr. Schue insists on doing these things at the last minute, so I always prepare some backup numbers. How about you?_

_yeah just got home_

_What are you doing? I wish you were here to help me. It'd be so much easier with two people._

Finn knew Rachel well enough by this point to be able to tell that Rachel was not-so-subtly asking him to drive back to school. _sorry, can't. issues at home._

The next reply showed up more quickly than the previous texts. _Oh no… Is Kurt all right?_

_not sure. its hard to tell._

_Do you want me to come over?_

He really did want her to come over, just to have someone other than his mom and Burt to keep an eye on Kurt, but even with Kurt's door tied shut it wasn't a good idea. Kurt could be physically dangerous, but having friends over when he was in a state like this was also dangerous to his relationship with them, and Kurt needed to keep all the friends he could. Mercedes had been avoiding him even though she wouldn't admit it, and Blaine… well.

_nah i think were good. thx._

_Give him a kiss for me._

_uhh no, not gonna do that. but ill tell him u sent one._

_Fair enough. Okay, I have to get back to work, but you call if you need me. I love you._

Finn shoved his phone back into his pocket and leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling and keeping one ear open for any sounds inside Kurt's room that might be worrisome. It was odd, guarding his stepbrother when there was no sound at all. Usually he could hear Kurt dragging or throwing things, but the only indication that Kurt wasn't asleep was that he'd been hitting the door only a few moments ago. Finn considered opening the door to see what he was doing, but he knew he couldn't untie the rope until Kurt was back.

There was a quiet scraping sound, like a needle against a chalkboard, and Finn raised his head with a frown. He swallowed, trying not to flinch as his stomach twisted.

Kurt's fingers had threaded themselves through the crack below the door, curling up around the wood like the pale legs of a spider. The nails dragged slowly over the grain, and Finn thought he could hear Kurt's breath hissing on the other side.

Finn drew his knees up to his chest and stayed where he was.


	44. Low Gravity

_Low Gravity  
><em>

Kurt sucked in a gulp of air, blinking in the dark. He was lying down, but his stiff hips and back plus the feeling of the thin carpet against his skin told him that he was half-curled on his bedroom floor rather than in his bed. There was no sunlight coming through the windows – instead the room was illuminated only by the dim glow of the streetlamps out by the road and the hallway light seeping through the cracks around the door. He glanced at the clock and quickly did the math in his head – he'd been absent for a little more than ten hours and the winter's early night had already swept in.

A chill washed over his skin and he realized that the upper half of his body was naked, but he didn't quite want to move yet. Instead of standing up, he ran through the mental routine of lining up the events that had taken place for him in the time before he blacked out – the last thing he could remember was Blaine shouting, and though he couldn't remember the exact words the thought of it made his throat hurt.

He sighed – _come on, Kurt, get up already_ – and tried to drag himself to his feet, only to yelp and recoil when _pain_ erupted all across his torso. His skin suddenly felt like it was on fire, the nerves shocked by his attempt at movement. Wincing and gritting his teeth, he tried again, this time gingerly pushing himself up onto his knees and waiting for the pulsing pain in his skin to subside slightly before standing up fully. His mirror was no longer there – Zack had destroyed it – so Kurt turned on his bedside lamp and looked down at himself.

The air left his lungs in a single beat.

His chest, shoulders, and stomach were peppered with fresh cigarette burns, angry and red even in the soft glow of his lamp. Taking a deep breath and trying not to panic, he silently counted the marks of puckered skin. Amidst the confusion and terror tugging at the bottom of his stomach, Kurt felt a stabbing of irritation – the two burns on his back had barely stopped hurting, and now he had to deal with these too.

Eleven.

Eleven new scars to wear.

Kurt's eyesight blurred, and he wiped his hands over his eyes.

There was a faint, hesitant knock on the door. "Kurt?" Finn called softly from the other side. He must have seen the light go on. "Are you back?"

Kurt swallowed, his throat aching. Finn sounded so _hopeful_. But he couldn't face Finn right now. He couldn't face anyone, not when they had to tie his door shut just to keep him contained.

He remembered with a jolt that his admission interview at Appalachian was today, and he didn't even know if it had taken place. The realization sent an agonizing shock up his spine, and his lungs contracted beneath his ribs as the room tilted and he had to sit down on the floor again to keep from collapsing. He fleetingly wondered if this is what a panic attack felt like, but he couldn't think about that for very long since he was trying to focus on just pulling air into his chest.

It proved to be much harder than normal. Kurt could feel his throat squeezing tight, and his ribs opened and closed emptily. The fresh burns seared into his skin like claws digging to his bones, and he felt _ashamed_ as tears leaked out of his eyes, dripping onto his hands.

"Kurt?" Finn called again. "Please tell me it's you so I can open the door."

Kurt didn't answer, only pulling his knees against his chest and trying not to gasp for air.

* * *

><p>Three more days, Finn reminded himself. Just three days. Kurt would be interviewed tomorrow, the hospital would admit him, and then he'd settle in over the weekend. Just three days until Finn wouldn't be obligated to sit outside Kurt's door while Zack threw things or Eleanor screamed. He didn't want Kurt to leave, but with Kurt home it was too crowded, and they all needed some breathing room – Kurt included.<p>

Finn stared at the wall, his arms wrapped loosely around his legs as he leaned his head back. He listened closely to the sobs coming from Kurt's room, trying to determine just from the sound if it was Kurt or someone else, but the voice was a little too distorted through the door to be sure.

He jumped, startled out of his concentration when his phone buzzed against his leg. Rachel had sent him a text asking if Kurt was any better and informing him of her decision to add Ingrid Michaelson to the Regionals set list.

_sounds awesome_, he replied, having no clue who Ingrid Michaelson was.

_…You didn't answer my question about Kurt._

Finn really wasn't sure how Rachel learned to text so quickly. Maybe it was because her fingers were smaller and she didn't make as many typos as he did.

Kurt's cries were beginning to sound more choked-off and uneven, and Finn paused before sending his reply.

_he's fine._

* * *

><p>Burt felt a flood of relief when Finn came down the stairs just after ten o'clock, followed by an exhausted-looking Kurt. Burt jumped up from his armchair and engulfed Kurt in a hug, feeling his heart clench at how weakly Kurt's arms returned the gesture. He looked so <em>tired<em>, and Burt wanted to offer to sleep in Kurt's room with him that night, but Kurt was eighteen and his pride was easily bruised, so Burt held his tongue.

He drew out of the hug, his hands on Kurt's slumped shoulders. "You're okay?" he asked.

Kurt nodded, his shadowed eyes blinking slowly.

"You're sure?"

"I'm okay," Kurt said, his voice hoarse. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I'm just hungry."

Carole immediately stood up from her spot on the couch. "I'll make you something," she said, disappearing into the kitchen.

"I… think I'll go to bed," said Finn, his hands in his pockets. "See you in the morning." He climbed back up the stairs without giving either Burt or Kurt the chance to say good night.

Burt wrapped an arm around Kurt's back, half supporting him as they went to the kitchen. He and Carole had already eaten dinner (Carole had brought a sandwich upstairs for Finn), but he sat down at the table with Kurt anyways, keeping a hand on Kurt's forearm until Carole placed a grilled cheese in front of him.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Burt asked softly as Kurt ate. He couldn't help but notice how nauseous Kurt looked.

Kurt refused to meet either his or Carole's eyes. "Uh… I remember cleaning up my room. That's it," he said, and Burt knew it was a lie. He didn't press, though. Kurt deserved some room to try and forget.

* * *

><p>Kurt finally dropped off to sleep in his own bed around eleven, and Burt slept fitfully next to Carole, waking every hour or so for a few minutes before letting his eyes slide shut again. Dozing with his arm draped over Carole's middle, the house was quiet except for the winter breeze blowing past the windows, tendrils of frost creeping up the glass. Burt's mind constantly wavered between dreams and half-coherent thoughts, seemingly unable to decide between sleep and consciousness. Carole sighed in her sleep, rolling closer to him.<p>

At three-fifteen on the dot, Burt's eyes snapped open. It took him a moment to register the grating, solid scratching sound that had woken him, and he sat up in bed, twisting around towards the door. For a brief half-second, Burt was worried that Kurt was suffering from one of his alters' fits again in the seclusion of his room, but he flinched and instinctively grabbed Carole's shoulder when he realized that Kurt was _right there._

Carole sat up, startled awake by Burt's hand. "Burt, what—? Oh my God…"

Kurt was crouched on the floor with his back to them, his shoulders hunched as he hacked at the wall with the tip of a letter opener (he must have stolen it from Burt's desk downstairs). There were dozens of lines carved in a vaguely rectangular shape, crossing and swooping over one another randomly. Kurt's head tilted as he stabbed through the wallpaper, dragging the point of the dull blade across the wood.

"K-Kurt?" Burt started.

Kurt's head snapped back to stare at them with wide, unblinking eyes turned black in the shadows. The letter opener fell to the floor with a _thunk_.

No one moved for several seconds. Still crouching, Kurt silently lifted a finger to his lips.

Then he lurched to his feet, and disappeared into the hallway.


	45. Kill, Burn, Thrill, Sting

_Kill, Burn, Thrill, Sting_

Burt drummed his thumbs anxiously against the steering wheel as he drove along the highway outside of Bellefontaine the next morning. Kurt was in the backseat, engrossed in making two Hot Wheels cars zoom in circles on the seat beside him. Burt glanced in the mirror to check on him just as Kurt mimed a collision and subsequent explosion, the two cars spinning in slow-motion in his hands.

"Boom! Kapow-_psssh_!"

Glancing at his watch to make sure they had enough time to get to Athens before Kurt's evaluation interview, Burt listened as Kurt hummed tunelessly along with the radio while he played. It was remarkable, really, just how _detailed_ Zack's presence was – every tiny mannerism, expression, and movement was identical to that of a typical four-year-old boy. Even the way he laughed.

Burt had always heard other parents talking about how quickly their kids grew up and changed and "Oh, before you know it, you'll be missing the midnight nightmare hugs…" Up until Kurt's official diagnosis, he'd nodded his head and agreed with them. Now, if he heard a mother or father echo those overused statements, Burt would swallow and quietly wait for the subject to change.

After Kurt had disfigured the bedroom wall during the night, Burt had run after him to make sure he wouldn't do anything potentially dangerous. Neither he nor Carole had slept for the remainder of the night, even after they'd finally gotten Kurt back into his room and tied the door shut. It had taken the two of them almost half an hour to scrape the torn wallpaper away from the markings and realize that the lines Kurt had carved were not, in fact, random at all – though once they realized what they were, it still didn't make any sense whatsoever.

"Is that… Chinese?" Carole had said, staring at the jagged lines in the wood. What Burt had previously thought to be an ill-defined rectangle actually proved to be a series of four Chinese symbols, one on top of the other in a short vertical line. He couldn't even begin to fathom how Kurt would know any Chinese, let alone any of the alters, which made Zack's appearance in their bedroom all the more upsetting.

Steeling his nerves, Burt reached forward and switched off the radio. Kurt's head immediately snapped up from the miniature car race taking place on his lap. "Aww, I like that song," he complained.

Burt couldn't help but snort. "You like _Moves Like Jagger_?"

"What's a Jagger?"

"Never mind."

"Can you turn the music back on?"

"No, we need to talk about something first."

Kurt made one of the toy cars skid sideways, complete with sound effects. "Where are we going?" he asked once the miniature Camarro had suffered a violent spinout and crashed into the back of the seat.

"I told you, we're going to see a new doctor, remember?" Burt replied, switching on the windshield wipers as snowflakes because to dot the glass.

Kurt didn't seem to hear him at all. "Can we go to Chuck E. Cheese later?"

"Zack," Burt said sternly.

"What?"

"Let's try to focus, okay? Can you put the cars down?" Kurt dropped the cars onto the seat and sat back to look out the window, and Burt exhaled, keeping his eyes on the road. "Why were you in my room last night?"

Kurt didn't respond, only watching the other cars pass by.

"Answer me, Zack."

"I wasn't in your room."

Burt gritted his teeth, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. "I _saw _you," he insisted. "Zack—"

"_I didn't do it!_" Kurt shouted suddenly, making Burt jump in the driver's seat.

Burt frowned for a moment, watching Kurt glare out the window. "Zack… I didn't say you did anything."

Kurt pulled his legs up against his torso, resting his chin on his knees and refusing to look in Burt's direction.

"You're not in trouble," Burt promised. "I just want to know why you put those marks on the wall."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Why not?"

Burt's heart lurched as he saw Kurt's eyes fill with tears, and Kurt said something too quiet to hear.

"What was that?"

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut. "I hate you."

* * *

><p>In the choir room, Rachel sat quietly in the back with her notebook on her lap, editing her notes for the Regionals set list that she'd come up with. The rest of the club was spread around the room, on the risers or by the piano or fooling around with the band equipment, talking amongst themselves. Rachel was keeping one eye on the door to the hallway since the only club member missing was Finn, and nowadays Rachel made a point to be hyper-aware of Finn's moods. Showing up late to Glee meant one of two things: one, Finn had fallen asleep in his last class, or two, he was so preoccupied that he was having a hard time keeping track of his schedule. Considering everything that was going on in the Hudson-Hummels' household, Rachel would be willing to bet her future stardom on the latter possibility.<p>

Her suspicion was confirmed when Finn finally walked in looking a little rushed and worn out, sitting next to her with barely a nod in greeting.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yeah. What are you doing?" He gestured to her notebook.

Rachel could easily see that he was trying to deflect her interest, but she figured that she'd give him the space for now. If Kurt was going into the hospital in a few days, then Finn would have a little more time to breathe then. Instead, she responded by launching into a detailed description of her ideas for Regionals, to which Finn nodded and oohed and aahed in all the right places.

"…so then, once the Troubletones are finished with their girl-power number, we'd launch straight into _I Believe I Can Fly_, which I thought would make a fantastic closing song that the judges would remember, especially if we can re-arrange it into a rock cover—"

"Okay, heads up, everyone," Mr. Schue cut in, striding into the room with his briefcase over one shoulder and an envelope in his hand. The group fell quiet and situated themselves on the risers while Mr. Schue dropped his briefcase onto the top of the piano. "I've gotten our letter from the National Show Choir Board, so we can finally start planning for Regionals in earnest."

The group exchanged excited glances as Mr. Schue opened the letter. "We're up against the Warblers, of course, and a madrigal choir called the Golden Goblets. Not… exactly sure what their deal is, but from the sound of it they should be fairly easy to beat. Traditional stool choir."

Several of the kids clapped or nodded confidently, and Rachel felt slightly more relaxed knowing that they only needed to worry about the Warblers.

"As for the judges' expectations this year," Mr. Schue continued. "We've still got to do a ballad, and the competition theme is 'heart.'"

Rachel almost laughed out loud. The themes that the NSCB came up with were nearly always lame and/or silly, and this year's wasn't any different. Still… She glanced down at her notes, already rearranging and switching out no-longer-applicable songs with more appropriate ones. At least '_heart_' was an elastic theme open to a wide variety of interpretations.

Her arm shot into the air, and Mr. Schue raised his eyebrows at her. "Yes, Rachel?"

"I think we should dedicate the performance to Kurt," she rushed.

Finn blinked, his head whipping around to stare at her in shock, but she pushed forward and addressed the whole room.

"The theme is _heart_," she insisted. "We've repeatedly stated that we're a family, and yet we're going to be performing with Kurt absent. I don't know if this has sunk in yet for most of you, but Kurt's not going to be missing just this performance. He's not coming back _at all_. In my opinion as Glee captain but also as Kurt's friend, it would be ludicrous not to show him that we support and care about him."

Mr. Schue glanced at the rest of the club. "Anyone else?"

Rachel looked expectantly at Mercedes and Finn, but the both of them seemed to be wrapped up in their own thoughts, and instead it was Puck who spoke up first.

"That Unitard chick posted on Facebook saying that since Kurt's crazy, we're going to be killed at Regionals," he grumbled. "I say we shove it up her ass. For Kurt."

Mr. Schue didn't even bother reprimanding Puck for the language. "All those in favor?"

Thirteen hands shot into the air.

* * *

><p>The snow was beginning to fall more thickly, but Burt was having a hard time concentrating on the road ahead. Kurt had remained silent for the past twenty minutes straight, crying quietly with his chin resting on his knees while he watched the snowflakes stick to the window. "Zack," Burt said for at least the tenth time. "Please talk to me. I want to help you feel better."<p>

A few extra tears slid down Kurt's cheeks and dripped onto his knees. "I don't want Kurt to feel better."

Burt blinked, startled. "What? Why?" There was no response for several seconds, and Burt's stomach curled painfully in his gut. "Zack," he pressed. "Why don't you want Kurt to feel better?"

Kurt only sniffed, wiping at his face with the back of his sleeve.

"Zack, answer me," said Burt, his tone turning forceful. He almost didn't care about frightening Zack at this point; he was desperate.

Burt sighed when he glanced in the mirror and saw that Kurt's eyes were half-closed and empty. His questions for Zack would have to wait. By this point, they were approaching the exit to Dublin, and Burt thought of stopping to pick up some lunch-to-go in Columbus. He wasn't very hungry, though, and Kurt tended to turn up his nose at the food Burt would buy.

Burt jumped a little when Kurt sucked in a breath, sitting up and looking around the car for a moment to figure out where he was. He then settled back with a half-formed smirk plastered to his face, and unbuckled his seat belt.

"What are you doing?" Burt demanded as Kurt pulled himself through the gap between the front seats, clambering down into the passenger seat and very nearly elbowing Burt in the face. "Sit down!"

"So, we going to the crazy doctor?" Kurt asked as he pulled open the glove compartment and withdrew a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. Burt grimaced as Kurt stuck a cigarette between his teeth.

"If that's what you want to call it," Burt said. "Give me that." Keeping one eye on the road, he reached over and snatched the lit cigarette out of Kurt's mouth, rolling down the window and tossing it out.

Kurt narrowed his eyes at his father and blew the inhalation of smoke directly at Burt's face, then slouched down and propped one foot up on the dashboard.

Burt coughed, blinking away the mild burning in his eyes. "I don't even want to know how many times you've stolen my car if you've got a tobacco stash in the glove compartment," he remarked.

Kurt rolled his eyes at the snowflakes collected on the windshield. "Isn't it _your _job to keep track of your own shit?"

"Yeah, well, you know what, Truman? That'd be a lot easier if you'd stop stealing it."

"Whatever, Grandpa," Kurt snapped. "Is the doctor going to give us any pills? 'Cause we could always make that a party."

Burt huffed in irritation. "Why are you here?" he asked in exasperation. He'd always had trouble with Truman especially – his voice, his words, his promiscuity and general attitude towards everything. "Why isn't Kurt out right now?"

Kurt flashed him a scathing look. "How the fuck should I know?"

"Truman, we've been through this. You _are_ Kurt."

"Oh, fuck off, would you? I'm not Craig; I don't need the you're-all-the-same-psycho speech, okay?" Kurt spat. "I _know_ we share the body. But I'm not Kurt. Got it?"

Burt frowned in confusion. "Help me understand, then," he said, forcing himself to remain somewhat calm. It wouldn't do any good to trigger another transition. "Why are you here?"

"Hey, I don't control this shit any more than Kurt does, so get the fuck off my case."

"You're in a bad mood," Burt commented. When Kurt ignored the observation, Burt approached him from a different angle. "Truman, do you know why Zack's upset?"

Kurt grinned abruptly, and the expression made Burt feel queasy.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Zack is."

"Why? You like it when Zack's unhappy?"

A chuckle worked its way out of Kurt's throat. "Let's just say he's entertaining."


	46. Iceberg

_Iceberg_

After rehearsal, Mike filed out of the choir room with the rest of the Glee kids, holding hands with Tina as he went. The two of them were listening politely to Sugar insisting that every member of the combined New Directions and Troubletones dye their hair for Regionals when Finn tapped Mike on the shoulder.

"Hey, can I talk to you?"

Mike was a little confused since Finn's expression clearly meant whatever he wanted to talk about was fairly serious (and Mike wasn't exactly the go-to guy for serious stuff not involving himself), but he nodded and told Tina he'd text her later. She glanced once at Finn, concern flitting over her features before she smiled, gave Mike a kiss, and headed to the parking lot with the rest of the girls.

"What's up?" Mike asked, shifting his backpack on his shoulder.

"I need your help with something," Finn said.

Mike frowned. "Artie's movie?" he guessed, saying the first possibility that popped into his head. He couldn't think of anything else going on in Finn's life that would involve people outside his family.

Finn shook his head. "No, not that. I… Look, it's really hard to explain, but can you just make a quick stop at my house on your way home?"

Mike hesitated. "…Is Kurt going to be there?"

"No, don't worry about that. Burt took him to Athens for his evaluation."

"Oh, I— I didn't mean…" Mike stammered. "I wasn't worried, I— I just wanted to know what to expect, you know?"

"Dude, I get it. It's fine. So, you'll follow me in your car? It'll take ten minutes, tops."

Mike shrugged. "Yeah, okay, sure."

Twenty minutes later, Mike parked his car alongside Finn's front lawn while Finn pulled his truck into the driveway, and Mike followed him up the porch steps to the front door. "Is your mom home?" Mike asked.

Finn pulled open the door and stepped into the kitchen, slinging his backpack onto the counter. "No, she's at work. Someone has to keep an eye on Kurt twenty-four-seven now, so Mom's been grabbing extra shifts whenever she can get them."

Mike nodded, though he wasn't sure he fully understood what was going on in the Hudson-Hummel family right now. He didn't ask, though. It wasn't his business. "So, what do you need me for?"

"I need you to translate something," Finn said, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the rack by the door.

Mike's eyebrows shot skyward. "Translate?" he echoed. "Seriously? What are you trying to read?"

Finn didn't laugh or smile at Mike's joking prod, and Mike was pretty sure that was a bad sign. A sign of what, he wasn't sure. "Come on," Finn said, turning and walking down the hallway.

Mike followed him upstairs, deciding very consciously not to ask or comment on the bike hook drilled into the wall by Kurt's bedroom door, or the rope hanging off of the doorknob. He couldn't help feeling a little relieved when Finn led him past, all the way to the end of the hall and opening up another bedroom.

"What are we doing in your parents' room?" Mike asked, shifting uncomfortably. If he were Puck, he'd probably make some snarky crack about Finn jumping his bones while the parents were out, but he'd been brought up in a stiff Chinese household and manners had been beaten into his bones from age three onwards. This also meant that he was not comfortable with being in a private space that did not belong to him. He hoped whatever Finn needed him to translate wouldn't take long.

Finn didn't say anything, only turning on the light and gesturing to the wall.

Mike blinked, at first confused by what he was looking at. A large patch of the wallpaper had been torn away and the wood underneath it was marred by criss-crossing jagged lines that had been made by some kind of knife or chisel. It took him several seconds to realize that the lines were actually forming symbols – familiar symbols.

"Whoa," he breathed, kneeling to get a closer look at the marks. "Kurt did this?"

Finn nodded solemnly. "Yeah. Well, technically he didn't, but… Never mind. Anyways. Can you read it?"

Mike squinted at the symbols, which were messily carved but still somewhat legible. "This is in Mandarin," he said.

"…So can you read it?"

"It might take me a minute," Mike replied. While his father's family was originally from Beijing and spoke fluent Mandarin, Mike Chang Sr. had had some sort of falling out with his siblings years ago and so Mike hadn't interacted with that side of the family tree since he was small. He was better at Cantonese, since his mother and her relatives were from Zhongshan and they all spoke Cantonese more often than English, but his father had made sure that Mike had had at least a rudimentary education in reading and writing both dialects.

"I'll figure it out," he said over his shoulder to Finn.

"Cool," Finn said. "Thanks, dude."

"No problem. Now shut up so I can concentrate."

Finn fell silent and resigned to simply leaning back against the other wall while Mike stared at the carvings and tried to make sense of them. Sifting through old information that he hadn't had to access for years, Mike compared the symbols to the ones he knew, slowly opening the pathways in his brain that would allow him to use his "mother tongue" (as his father would say).

It took him longer than the promised ten minutes, but he finally sat back and said, "Okay. I think I got it." He paused for a second before saying the phrase aloud in Mandarin. "_Jhen shur yie-sho._"

Finn looked at him askance. "…I did say 'translate', right?"

"I'm just trying to figure out what the closest English translation is," Mike said. "Relax." He cocked his head to the side in thought, comparing the two language dictionaries in his head for a few moments. "I guess it would be '_man is beast_'."

Finn's face contorted in bewilderment. "Well, what's that supposed to mean?"

Mike raised his hands. "I don't know. But that's what it says."

* * *

><p>Kurt lay on his back with his arms under his head, blades of grass prickling through his shirt and a light breeze tugging at his hair. A few clouds rippled across the sky above him, changing too quickly to identify any pictures in them. He breathed slowly, closing his eyes and listening to the sounds from the playground – the squeaking of the little merry-go-round as Tyler spun around, the squealing of the swing chains, Zack's engine noises as he pretended to be an excavator in the sandbox. Kurt was purposefully distancing himself from the playground, wanting some time somewhat to himself since the alters seemed to be holding their own.<p>

He supposed this was a meditation of sorts, and even though he'd always turned up his nose a little at the idea of meditation, it was nice to be able to kick back and breathe for a few minutes.

Eventually a shadow fell over him, and he squinted up to see Eleanor's figure blocking the sun. He shut his eyes again. "You're not going to cut my hair again, are you?"

"No."

There was a rustling as Eleanor lay on the grass next to him. He cracked an eye open to glance at her in confusion. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You're not insulting me," he said flatly. "Or hitting me."

Eleanor made a face like she was offended. "Fuck off."

"Oh, never mind. You're fine."

Kurt was surprised to hear her snort. He didn't think he'd ever heard Eleanor laugh before. At least, not when she wasn't trying to be cruel.

"Can I ask you something?" she said a minute later, surprising Kurt again.

"Um… I guess." He wasn't sure if he should brace himself for a rude and/or personal question, since Eleanor was acting strange (and had been for a while, now that he thought about it).

"What's it like being you?"

At that, Kurt involuntarily let out a cackle, his shoulders shaking as Eleanor glared at him.

"What's so funny?" she demanded.

Kurt forced himself to calm down, leaving one hand beneath his head and resting the other on his stomach. "Sorry," he said, still fighting a chuckle. "Just… someone who lives in my head, asking me what it's like being me? It's— Aren't you supposed to know that already?"

Eleanor narrowed her eyes at him, affronted. "In case you didn't notice, I'm not you. You own the body, and I'm stuck in your fucking dream playground."

Drawing a slow inhale, Kurt stared back up at the blue sky. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "But… I don't own the body."

"Yeah, you do."

Kurt shrugged, the grass poking into his shoulder blades. "Just because I was here first doesn't automatically make me the owner," he said, tugging a few green blades out of the ground.

"…Yeah, it does."

"Eleanor, I'm not in control," he insisted. "No one is. If someone was able to keep us all in check – and it doesn't have to be me, though obviously I'd prefer that – we wouldn't be having all these problems."

Eleanor frowned, rolling onto her side so as to look at him more directly. "You try to control me all the time."

The corner of Kurt's mouth tugged upwards. "No one can control you."

"I am pretty bossy, aren't I?" Eleanor grinned, lying back down.

"Bossy's not the word I'd use."

Eleanor giggled, which still sounded insanely odd.

"You know… you're a lot more fun when you're not attacking anyone," Kurt observed. "You seem happier."

She sighed, watching the rippling clouds for a few moments. "I'm not," she said. "I just get tired sometimes."

Kurt tilted his head. "Tired?"

He was surprised to see a tear work its way out the corner of her eye, falling and disappearing into the grass. "I'm so _angry_," she whispered. "All the time. And I don't know how to get it out of me and I don't know _why_."

Her voice cracked, and Kurt reached over to lightly clasp her hand.

"We're going to be stuck like this forever, and I _hate it_."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do," she snapped, yanking her hand away. "There's only two ways this can end, and they both suck."

Kurt blinked. "What?"

Eleanor gave him a look like it should have been obvious. "You die or you get better. Either way I disappear. We all do. And you walk off scot-free. It's not _fair_."

"I'm sorry," Kurt said, because he didn't know what else he could say.

Eleanor only turned her head away, her face contorting as she tried and failed to keep her tears in check. Kurt didn't move, at a loss for how to react.

He jumped when Robbie appeared above them. "What are you doing?" Robbie asked, his tone laced with accusation.

Kurt frowned up at him. "Um… talking to Eleanor?"

"Why?" Robbie demanded. Eleanor sniffed and glanced back and forth between the two of them.

"…Because she's upset?"

"So?"

Kurt's frown deepened as he sat up. "Is something wrong?"

"Yeah, I thought you were on _my_ team," Robbie snapped, sounding angrier than Kurt had ever heard. He didn't think he'd ever seen Robbie emotionally involved in anything, let alone angry over it.

"_Team_?" he echoed, almost laughing. "Robbie, there's no teams here."

"Bullshit."

Kurt squinted at Robbie in confusion, pulling himself to his feet so that the two of them were eye-level. "What's going on?" he asked. "Why are you acting like this?"

Robbie only glared at him, his jaw twitching and his eyes flashing in rage. Kurt nearly flinched.

"Have you got some kind of personal problem with Eleanor?" he inquired, crossing his arms.

"You're damn right, I do," Robbie snarled, curling his lip in Eleanor's direction. "She tried to kill you – along with the rest of us – and now you're _holding hands_ with her?"

Kurt took a step forward, squaring his shoulders and drawing himself up to his full height. (It was a little strange that he was a couple inches taller than Robbie, but Robbie was a sloucher, so…)

"First of all," he said firmly. "_I_ did that, so don't try to blame it on her. Second, you and I are not on a _team_. You abuse me just as much as she does, so don't pretend like you're the righteous Protector of the Realm."

"I don't—"

"_You don't let me eat, Robbie!_" Kurt cried, swiftly cutting his alter off. "You don't let me eat and you don't even _try_ to be kind to _anyone_ in the real world. In fact, you make it a point to be _un_kind. That's no better than anything Eleanor does, and you're not special."

At that, Robbie lurched forward a half-step, looking like he was about to punch Kurt in the jaw. Kurt flinched and stepped back, but Robbie stopped himself.

"You have _no idea_ how much I protect you from," Robbie spat.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Robbie didn't answer, already storming back across the grass towards the playground with his shoulders hunched tightly.

"Hey!" Kurt shouted. "I asked you a question!" He jogged after Robbie, leaving Eleanor behind on the ground. Robbie didn't stop or turn around. "Robbie! _I'm talking to you!_"

Kurt felt the ground disappear from under his feet, and his body was yanked backwards into the blackness.

* * *

><p>Burt and Kurt arrived at the Appalachian Behavioral Healthcare entrance nearly half an hour before Kurt's evaluation was scheduled and were directed to a waiting room only a short ways into the building. It was brightly lit and generally cheery, accented by a few potted ferns scattered around the room and a table stacked with magazines.<p>

Kurt shifted impatiently in his chair while Burt scanned over an issue of _US Weekly _from 2006. "I feel like I'm waiting for the fucking dentist," Kurt grumbled. "Would it kill them to add a few _Playboys_ to the collection?"

Burt didn't look up from his magazine, carefully choosing to ignore Truman's complaints.

Eventually, a pretty young intern came in with a clipboard. "Hummel?" she called, which was unnecessary considering that Burt and Kurt were the only two people there. "Dr. Silbaugh can see you now," she said with a sweet, white-toothed smile. "You can follow me."

She led them down the corridor only a few yards before opening an office door for them. "You can go right in and have a seat; Dr. Silbaugh will be here in just a second."

"Thanks," said Burt.

Kurt paused in the doorway, grinning at the intern for a little too long. "Yes, thank you, _Ashley_," he leered, and Burt was reasonably sure that the only reason Kurt had noticed her nametag in the first place was that it was pinned to her breast.

"Stop it," Burt snapped. "Sorry, miss, he—"

She flapped a hand. "Don't worry about it. I've been here awhile."

She turned and left, and Burt had to grab Kurt's arm to keep him from reaching for her buttocks.

"_Man_," Kurt said once she was gone and the door had closed behind her. "I wasn't too into the whole hospitalization thing, but if all the nurses look like her, I am _so_ down."

Burt rolled his eyes as he took one of the chairs in front of the large uncluttered desk. "I'm pretty sure your ward – _if_ you get admitted – will be a males-only situation."

"Well, fuck. I was hoping for a little variety." He shrugged and plopped into the chair next to Burt. "Ah, well. I'll take what I can get."

"You won't be _getting_ anything, Truman."

Kurt's eyes narrowed threateningly. "You know, you're really starting to piss me off."

"Sorry if that doesn't concern me all that much."

"It should."

The door opened behind them and a man in his forties wearing a white coat entered, holding his hand out to Burt. "It's great to meet you, Mr. Hummel," he said. "Your work in Congress has been absolutely fantastic. I'm Roy Silbaugh – we spoke on the phone. Is this your son?"

Burt nodded. "Yeah. Well, technically speaking."

"Fuck off, Gramps, I'm not your kid," Kurt spat, making a point of not standing up to greet the doctor. "Technically or otherwise."

Burt sighed. "And that would be the problem," he said to Dr. Silbaugh.

"Ah, I see." Silbaugh took Kurt's behavior in stride since he'd already known roughly what to expect. "And who's speaking now?"

"Tr—"

"Hello!" Kurt snapped. "I'm right fucking here, asshole."

"I apologize," Dr. Silbaugh said diplomatically. "What's your name?"

"Truman."

Silbaugh nodded and moved to take his own seat at the desk, shrugging off his white coat and hanging it over the back of his chair. He pulled out a pair of eyeglasses from his shirt pocket and glanced over the file on his desk. "All right, then… Can you refresh my memory? How many alters does Kurt have right now that you're aware of?" he asked. "That particular detail isn't in the file."

"Uh, seven," Burt answered, shifting anxiously in his seat.

"And what are their names?"

"Well, there's Truman, obviously," Burt said, ignoring Kurt's smug grin at the mention of Truman's name. "And there's also Craig, Robbie, Tyler, Schism, Zack, and Eleanor."

Silbaugh nodded and scribbled the details into the case file before sitting back. "Okay," he said. "Before we go any further, what specifically are you looking for from us?"

Burt frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well, some people come here in search of just a temporary refuge, or a place to adjust to new medications – mainly anti-psychotics – while others are looking for more of a long-term healing process."

"I don't care how long it takes," Burt said. "I just want my son put back together."

Kurt laughed, his head rolling back to grin at the ceiling. "Fat chance of that happening," he chuckled. "I like it here."

Silbaugh didn't seem surprised or at all taken aback by the statement. "Often there will be at least one alter who fights the integration process," he said. "It's perfectly understandable – and explainable."

"How many people have you treated for this?" Burt wanted to know.

"Well, it's… an unusual problem," Silbaugh replied. "I've been here ten years, but we've only had one other patient with DID in that time. However, when she left, she was fully integrated and ready to really live her life unhindered, so Kurt will be in good hands if you decide to admit him. And if he passes the evaluation. Obviously, if he's going to pose too much of a danger to the other patients, we won't be able to provide him with the care he needs since we try to keep the environment here as liberal as we can. However, if he doesn't pass, I can give you the names and contact information of several hospitals that specialize in DID."

"Do any of them have hot nurses?" Kurt piped up, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

Silbaugh raised his hands. "I can really only give you a definite opinion of the psychological care you would receive," he said. "I know nothing about the hotness quotient of the staff."

Kurt snorted. "I like this guy."

"I have to ask," Silbaugh started, leaning on his elbows and turning his attention to Burt. "This may be a difficult question for you, Mr. Hummel, but I need you to answer honestly. Are any of Kurt's alters psychotic or chiefly violent?"

Burt chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. "Well, yeah. Craig's beaten Kurt up before, and Eleanor cuts him sometimes. She also hits other people sometimes, too, but she's not very strong so there's not a lot of damage there. I wouldn't go so far as to call either of them psychotic, though."

Silbaugh nodded. "Okay, good. That sort of thing we're equipped to handle."

"What exactly does 'equipped' mean?" Burt asked. "I just want to know exactly what I'm signing my kid up for here."

"Well, we use sedation as an absolute last resort," Silbaugh assured him. "We make a point to not drug our patients unless we're one hundred percent sure that it's the only way to control them and we usually only come to that conclusion if they're attempting to hurt themselves. If a patient is having a difficult time remaining calm, we have a solitary room where they can go until they feel ready to come back."

Kurt cackled again, earning a strange look from Burt. "Padded cell sounds fun," he remarked with a stretched grin. "An _awesome_ place to hook—"

Burt frowned as Kurt's speech was suddenly cut off, his facial expression going slack. A low, groaning sound rattled in Kurt's chest for a moment as his eyes slid shut and then abruptly snapped open. "—_talkingggg you!_" he slurred loudly, nearly falling out of his chair as his limbs jerked and his body lurched forward.

Burt managed to reach out and grab Kurt before he lost his balance or hit his head on the desk. "Kurt?" he said, holding him with one arm around the chest and one hand on his back. "Kurt, say something."

Kurt's eyes blinked as if they were adjusting to the light, and his breath was coming a little faster than normal, but he sat up slowly and looked around the room in confusion. "Where are we?"

Burt huffed a sigh of relief at the sound of his son's voice. "You scared me for a second there."

"Sorry, I— I was running after Robbie—" Kurt shook his head. "Never mind."

Burt squeezed his shoulder. "We're at Appalachian, kiddo. This is your interview."

Silbaugh reached across the desk to shake Kurt's hand. "I'm Dr. Silbaugh," he said.

Kurt blinked again, and Burt could see that he was fighting tears. He could hardly blame Kurt for that, though. He'd been dreading the evaluation for days and all of a sudden he'd woken up right in the middle of it.

"Kurt, you okay?" Burt asked, a hand still resting on Kurt's arm.

"I…" Kurt swallowed, then abruptly stood up, wiping at his face. "I – I need a minute. I'll be in the hall." He turned and pulled the door open, disappearing into the corridor.

Burt stood to go after him, but Silbaugh stopped him. "Don't worry; he can't go far," he said. Burt hesitated, still wanting to make sure Kurt wasn't completely falling apart. Silbaugh closed Kurt's medical file. "Now, if you like we can admit him now and have him situated in just under an hour, but it seems like he might need a couple days before he's ready to move in. We don't want him too stressed his first day."

Burt paused. "So he passed?"

Silbaugh nodded. "I think we can help him. Hopefully he'll be on his way to integration very soon." He took off his glasses and dropped them on top of the file. "Now, Kurt's going to need a physical examination before he's admitted. We can do that here whenever he moves in, but I think with his condition it would be better to do it in a familiar environment with a doctor he knows. If you want to use your own physician for that, just have him or her fax me the results."

Burt reached out to shake Silbaugh's hand again. "Thanks, Doc," he said. "I'll bring him back on Sunday."


	47. A Fickle Heart And Dizzy Eyes

_A Fickle Heart And Dizzy Eyes_

More than anything, Mercedes felt guilty.

The more she thought about her history with Kurt, the more things actually made _sense_ now that his illness had come to light. First, there were the countless absences from school – Finn would only report that Kurt had a cold and he'd be back the next day, but Kurt had said before that he rarely got sick because of his organic-food-boosted immune system. Beyond that there were numerous times when she'd glance over at him during class or rehearsal and he'd just be sitting there with this look that just_ didn't fit._

There was also the night of her sleepover with Kurt and Rachel, when she'd woken around two in the morning to see Kurt clutching Rachel's stuffed bear and silently rocking himself back and forth on top of his sleeping bag. She'd thought it was weird and maybe worth asking him about, but she'd assumed he was sleepwalking (rocking?) and gently told him to lie down and go back to sleep.

The next day Kurt had gone back to Dalton and she'd forgotten to ask him if he was all right.

The biggest problem was that Mercedes just didn't _get_ it. She understood intellectually what was going on in Kurt's head (or at least the basics of it), but that didn't make it any less confusing. Or less scary.

She had a vague idea of what could have happened to cause Kurt's behavior, but she consciously made a point not to think about it. Partly because it didn't make any sense that someone like Kurt would have _that_ kind of history, but mostly because the thought of it made her want to simultaneously cry and throw up.

It really wasn't that she wanted to avoid _Kurt_, like Rachel said. She just wanted to avoid thinking too deeply about it, and she couldn't do that when she was in the same room as he was. She'd been keeping a watchful eye on his Skype handle, hoping he would log on, but she knew she could be doing a little more than that and Kurt's name seemed to be making itself comfortable beneath the Offline header.

Eventually, she decided that Rachel was right – she just needed to buck up and take the freaking stress, because God damn it, Kurt had enough of that to deal with already. Flopping down on her bed after dinner with her bedroom door closed, she pulled her phone out of her bra and punched in the number for Kurt's house.

Finn's mom picked up on the second ring. "_Hello?_"

"Hi, Ms. Hudson," Mercedes said, trying not to notice how fast her heart was beating. "Is Kurt there?"

"_Oh, hi, Mercedes,_" Carole replied. "_I'm sorry but Kurt's dad took him to Athens today. They won't be back for another couple hours. You want me to give him a message?_"

A small wave of relief rippled over Mercedes' skin, which she pointedly ignored.

"Uh, no, that's okay," she said. "Wasn't Kurt supposed to go yesterday?"

"_…We had to postpone_," Carole said hesitantly.

Mercedes paused, not really sure if she wanted to ask what Carole wasn't saying. "Okay," she said instead. "I'll try again later."

"_Good night, Mercedes._"

Ending the call, Mercedes sighed, feeling her throat stretch and her eyes prickle. Swallowing, she debated whether or not she should try calling Kurt's cell, then decided against it.

Fighting tears, she threw her phone across the room.

* * *

><p>The drive back to Lima was painfully quiet. Kurt wasn't speaking and Burt wasn't sure what to say, so he kept his eyes on the road ahead, navigating through the lanes of traffic and the light snow falling from the pinkish evening sky. At one point he switched on the radio, hoping just for something to fill the silence, but Kurt wearily asked him to turn it off.<p>

"You all right?" Burt ventured.

"I'm fine," was Kurt's deadpan response.

"Do you want to talk?"

"No."

Burt shut his mouth.

Several minutes passed, continuing the agonizing silence, until Kurt abruptly ordered Burt to stop the car.

"What? What's wrong?"

Kurt shook his head, a hand over his mouth. "Just pull over," he said through his fingers. "Pull over. Now. Please. Pull over, pull over, pull over."

"Tell me what's wrong," Burt said forcefully, changing lanes and pulling the car to a stop on the gravel shoulder of the road.

Rather than answer, Kurt fumbled for the door handle and jumped out. The moment he was out of the car, he doubled over and braced his hands against his knees. The muscles in his torso spasmed as his stomach heaved, its contents splattering onto the lumpy snow. Burt quickly climbed out of the car and rushed over, holding Kurt's shoulders gently as he vomited a second time.

"All done?" Burt said as Kurt staggered slightly and spat the last of it onto the ground.

Again, Kurt didn't answer and instead pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, his back still hunched over. Burt rubbed a hand solidly against Kurt's shoulder blade, noticing that the bone seemed to poke out a little further than it was supposed to. Robbie must have been manipulating Kurt's ability to keep anything down for longer than Burt realized.

"You okay now?"

"Was I raped?"

For a second, Burt thought his heart had stopped. "What?"

Kurt straightened slowly. "Was I raped," he repeated. It wasn't really a question.

Burt swallowed. "I don't know."

"Why don't you?"

Those three words felt like a knife to the gut. Kurt's head twisted around to look Burt in the eye, and his expression made Burt want to scream. "Kurt…" he breathed, reaching out to pull his son into his embrace.

But he flinched back as Kurt's face changed. His eyes hardened and teeth clenched, the corners of his mouth turning down, and his body seemed to grow a little bigger. "I _told _you," Kurt snarled lowly, his lip curling slightly. "You don't protect him."

And suddenly Kurt _lunged_, and Burt was snatched by the front of his coat and thrown up against the side of the car. Kurt's arm pressed across Burt's chest and his other hand clamped down on Burt's neck, his thumb digging into his father's trachea.

"Craig, st-stop," Burt wheezed, his hands fumbling to push Kurt away without hurting him. "You're ch-choking me—"

"That's the _point_, asshole," Kurt spat, pulling Burt back only to slam him into the car again. Burt could feel his face going red, his blood pulsing in his ears and cheeks. He tried to push at Kurt's chest, but Craig was fifty-six and a lot stronger than Burt was, and Kurt didn't budge. As the edges of Burt's vision began to darken, he scrabbled at Kurt's arms, attempting to wrench them away from his neck.

He was rewarded with a solid punch to the nose, and he cried out, feeling blood drip down to his chin.

"Shut up!" Kurt barked, his eyes burning an icy blue.

Gasping for air, Burt tried to reason with him. "St-stop— Craig, Kurt… doesn't want— You can't do this— He doesn't want—"

Kurt's thumb only pressed harder against Burt's throat, and Burt felt the sides of his trachea close. "How the _fuck_ would you know what Kurt wants?" Kurt growled lowly, his face only inches from Burt's. "_You weren't there._"

Burt's mind was racing and the roaring in his ears was so loud that he could barely hear the cars passing by them on the road. Beginning to panic slightly, Burt wrapped his hands around Kurt's wrists, trying as hard as he could to make Kurt _stop_.

Craig apparently didn't like that.

Before Burt could fully process what was happening, he was being pulled away from the car and dragged towards the heavy traffic on the other side of the white line. He sucked in a breath when Kurt's hands lifted away, but his brain was still so deprived of oxygen that he didn't quite figure out what Kurt was doing until he was _shoved_ backwards into the road.

Burt staggered for a second, flinching as the _loud_ blast of a truck horn ripped through the air and the tractor trailer's bright headlights blinded him.

Then there was a scream of "_NO!_" and the headlights disappeared as a pair of hands grabbed Burt's coat and yanked him back over the white line, a wind whipping at their clothes as the truck hurtled by. Burt stumbled and the two of them fell back onto the snow, out of breath.

"No, no, no, Dad, I'm so sorry—" Kurt was crying and clutching at Burt's coat. His voice was stretched and thin, choked off. "I don't know— I'm so sorry— _Please_—"

Burt sat up, shaking the static from his head as his circulation finally climbed back to normal. "Kurt, stop—" he said, trying to sound calm. He placed his hands firmly on Kurt's trembling shoulders, but Kurt flinched away.

"No, no, you can't— I don't w-want to hurt you," Kurt sobbed, hiding his face in his hands. "I'm so _sorry_."

Burt swallowed, and rather than try to assure Kurt verbally, he wrapped his arms around Kurt's shoulders as tightly as he could and held him in place, hoping it would be enough to anchor the both of them.


	48. Shaking Through

_Shaking Through_

It had become something of a routine since November when Sam had moved in for him to hang out on the floor of Rachel's room for a few hours nearly every weeknight while they completed their homework. He would help her with the science assignments (which she just_ did not_ get) and she'd help him with… well, everything else.

Now, Sam was sitting cross-legged on the carpet with his back propped up against the foot of Rachel's bed and his copy of _The Tempest_ open on his lap. Rachel, who had already finished all her work, was at her desk and clacking away at her laptop, already in her pajamas despite the fact that it was only nine-thirty. There was a knock on the door and Hiram stuck his head in.

"You guys chipping away at your little mountain of homework?" he said.

"Slowly but surely, I guess," answered Sam.

"I finished," Rachel replied. "I'm looking up possible songs for my NYADA audition."

"I expect to hear a pre-audition performance of whichever one you choose," Hiram insisted.

Rachel smiled, grateful of her fathers' involvement in her career preparation.

"Rach, can I talk to you for a second before I go to bed?" Hiram requested, nodding pointedly to the hallway behind him.

Rachel frowned, but stood to follow him out of the room, leaving Sam on his own with William Shakespeare. "Is something wrong?" she asked, keeping her voice down.

Hiram replied in an equally hushed tone. "I just had a call from Kurt's dad—"

Rachel's eyes flew open and she tensed up. "What happened? Is Kurt okay?"

"He's fine," Hiram assured her. "At least, as far as I know – I don't think Mr. Hummel would share that information with me." Hiram shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. "Anyways, he asked me to stop looking into who this Franklin guy is."

Rachel's frown snapped back into place, deeper than before. "They're giving up?" she demanded. "They can't do that! What about—?"

Hiram quickly lifted a hand, asking her to keep her voice down. Rachel pressed her lips together, remembering that he'd told her about the half-formed investigation _in confidence_ (and Sam was kind of within earshot).

"They're not giving up," Hiram continued. "They're just setting it aside for a little while, until Kurt starts to make progress in the hospital. They want to focus on getting the whole healing process started. I'm asking you not to try to take it any further, or talk to Kurt about it. I'm not even sure he knew Burt was looking into it."

Rachel sighed, swallowing. "…So he's really going, then? They're locking him up?"

Hiram placed a hand on her shoulder. "Mental hospitals aren't prisons, Rachaela. He's not going to be behind bars. It's just a place where he doesn't have to worry about anything except getting better, and from the sound of it he's never really had a chance to do that. So, if you want to help him you should support the hospitalization as much as you can."

She remained silent for several seconds, her arms hugging her chest while she stared at her father's shoes.

"Rachel?" Hiram prompted.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay. I guess I'll call up Finn tomorrow and see if I can see Kurt one last time before he leaves."

"That's my girl." Hiram pulled her into a tight hug and bid her a good night before heading off down the hall to his own bedroom. Rachel tugged on the ends of her hair anxiously before returning to her room.

"Everything okay?" Sam asked, his eyebrows knitted together in concern.

Rachel nodded as she fell heavily back onto her desk chair. "Yeah. It's just... Kurt's going into the hospital is all."

Sam blinked. "That wasn't the plan already?"

"No, it was, but… I guess it's final now."

"Oh."

Rachel shook her head and closed her laptop. "I don't feel like looking for audition numbers any more," she murmured, feeling a sharp stabbing ache in the base of her throat. Her eyes prickled slightly, but she blinked until the feeling was gone.

"You want to head to bed?" Sam asked. "I can study in the guest room."

"No, that's okay," she replied softly. "I'm not tired, and I don't think I could sleep anyways. I'd rather just talk about something else."

"Okay."

She swiveled her chair around, then came over and sat on the floor next to him. "Need any help with Shakespeare?"

Sam grinned. "I don't understand_ anything_ he wrote."

Rachel pulled her knees up to her chest, thankful for the distraction. "What part are you having trouble with specifically?"

"The Harpy scene," Sam said, handing his book to her so that she could read the lines herself. "I don't really get why it's happening. Or what a Harpy is."

Rachel quirked her eyebrows. "Haven't you ever read Greek mythology?"

"…I saw _Hercules _once…"

"A Harpy's a creature that steals good things from bad people," Rachel explained, trying to think of the simplest way to describe it. "It's a divine punishment thing. Look. After Ariel transforms into the Harpy, he says '_for which foul deed, the powers delaying, not forgetting, have incensed the seas and shores. Yea, all the creatures against your peace… Lingering perdition shall step by step attend you and your ways._'"

Sam gave her a blank look.

Rachel huffed through her nose, well used to Sam's slow processing. "It means that no matter how long you wait, you _always_ have to pay for your sins."

* * *

><p>Burt's throat was still sore when he knocked on Kurt's bedroom door at ten-thirty that night. They'd finally gotten home around eight, but Kurt had disappeared upstairs and no one had heard anything from him since. On Burt's way to bed he'd noticed that the light in Kurt's room was still on.<p>

"Kurt?" he called softly. There was no response from the other side of the door, but since they hadn't heard anything from Kurt's room all night, Burt was hopeful that Kurt hadn't done anything too worrisome. "Kurt, I'm coming in." He twisted the handle and swung the door open hesitantly.

Kurt was lying on his bed, curled with his back to the door and his hands over his ears. Burt sighed, closing the door behind him and circling around the foot of the bed to sit by Kurt's feet. Kurt's eyes were squeezed shut and he was breathing steadily through his nose, a rhythm that Burt had figured out years ago to be one of Kurt's very few calming methods that actually worked.

"Kurt," he said, placing a hand on Kurt's leg.

Kurt started, his hands lifting and his eyes snapping open.

"Hey, you okay?"

Kurt blinked, swallowing audibly. His eyes were watery and every muscle was tense, as if he was afraid that Burt was going to do something bad. He didn't move.

"Are you okay?" Burt repeated.

Staring back warily, Kurt drew a shuddering breath. "Are you going to hit me?"

Burt mentally kicked himself for not realizing that Kurt wasn't even there, then frowned at the question. "Why would you think that?"

Kurt's lip trembled. "Be-because Craig tried to kill you."

"Tyler," Burt said firmly. "That wasn't you. And it wasn't Kurt, either. And no matter what, I'm not like Craig, all right? I'd never hit you."

"Craig says you will," Kurt sniffed. He'd sat up by this point, but he still hadn't relaxed and seemed to be drawing away from Burt's hand.

"Don't listen to Craig," Burt said. "Craig's a bully."

Kurt looked… offended? He shook his head. "No, he isn't. He helps us."

Confused, Burt frowned and cocked his head. "What do you mean?"

Kurt shrunk back, looking away and speaking in a whisper. "He keeps the bad man away."

Burt's eyes widened, and he seized the opportunity. "Tyler, who's the bad man?"

"I can't tell you."

"Do you know who it is?"

Kurt's face contorted as he swallowed a whimper. "Yes."

"Then _tell me._"

"_NO!_"

Burt jumped back as Kurt drew his leg back and kicked him hard in the chest. He stared for a long moment as Kurt pressed himself back against the headboard of his bed, glaring back at Burt through unshed tears, clearly terrified that Burt would do what Craig predicted.

Before Burt could say or do anything else, though, Kurt's shoulders slumped and his head lolled for a split second before he sat upright again. He coughed and blinked. "Dad?"

Burt let out a breath and smiled as steadily as he could. "Hey, kiddo. Welcome back."

The tears that Tyler had been holding back suddenly rushed back and Kurt curled his arms around his torso, needing the physical support but afraid to ask his father for it. "Dad, I'm so sorry—" he choked out. "I—"

Burt immediately leaned forward and grabbed Kurt firmly by the shoulders, forcing his son to look him in the eye. "Kurt, _none_ of this is your fault, okay?" he said. "None of it. I don't care how often the alters tell you it is. They're _wrong._ And I don't give a flying rat's ass how many times they punch me. I am _your_ father, and I'm not going anywhere. You got that?"

Kurt seemed to be too emotional to speak, so he only gave a shaky nod.

"I'm gonna stay in here with you tonight, okay?" Burt said, still gripping Kurt's shoulders but loosening the hold slightly.

Kurt sniffed, his face blotchy and his eyes bloodshot. "But you snore…" he hiccoughed.

Burt shrugged. "Tough luck, kiddo. I'm staying."


	49. Empty Ribs And Rocky Spine

_Empty Ribs And Rocky Spine  
><em>

Kurt was startled awake the next morning by his phone buzzing loudly against his bedside table, blasting the _Doctor Who_ theme only a moment later. There was a disgruntled snort from the other side of Kurt's bed, which scared him for a split second until he remembered that his dad had insisted on sleeping there for the night. He quickly hit the Answer button so the ringing wouldn't wake Burt up.

"Hold on," he said quietly into the phone, standing and briskly walking into the hall. He shut the door and leaned against the wall, holding the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"_I'm glad you answered._"

Kurt blinked in surprise. "Artie? What's going on?"

"_Nothing major, I just…_" Artie trailed off. "_I have a few minutes before classes start and I wanted to call and… you know, see if you were okay._"

Kurt frowned. Artie sounded… flustered. Like he was working up the courage to ask something but couldn't quite help putting it off just a little longer. "Well, I guess I'm all right," he replied. "Can I ask what prompted this?"

"_I… I heard you were admitted to that hospital in Athens_," Artie rushed.

There it was. The subject Artie didn't want to breach.

Kurt's stomach clenched and he very nearly hung up then and there. Instead, he gritted his teeth and responded as steadily as he could. "New travels fast," he said. "Who told you?"

"_Sam._"

Kurt sighed. He did _not _want to talk about this. And how the hell had Sam found out anyways?

Thankfully, Artie seemed to pick up on Kurt's reluctance and changed the subject. "_So you think you'll make it to Regionals?_"

Kurt's stomach twisted a second time. "Artie… I'm not coming back to school. I'm not allowed on the premises and even if I was, I couldn't be relied on to make it to rehearsals."

"_Uh, I knew that. Sorry. I meant just to see us perform. You know, as an audience member._"

"Oh."

"_So…_"

"I don't know…" Kurt exhaled slowly. He didn't want to talk to Artie about everything he was missing and he didn't want to _think_ about any of this at all. "It depends on what's going on then."

_It depends on whether I'm medicated or screaming or in solitary confinement or whether I'm even HERE._

"_That's okay,_" Artie said. "_We miss you, though. Don't forget it._"

"Thanks," Kurt mumbled, not really sure if he wanted to remember. It would just make everything so much harder.

There was the sound of the hallway bell in the background on Artie's end, and Artie huffed. "_Okay, I gotta go to Spanish. Mr. Schue is making us emulate the Buena Vista Social Club today. Again. Anyways, bye, Kurt. You'll be okay._"

The line clicked and Kurt swallowed, leaning his head back against the wall. He tried to focus on the solidity of the floor beneath his feet rather than the straining in his head as Eleanor or Craig or maybe Robbie were grabbing at the reins, but the effort mostly just made him feel nauseous. He managed to stay conscious for about sixty seconds before he felt himself fall backwards into the black.

* * *

><p>As much as Carole loved Burt with all her heart as both her husband and as his own man, she admired him even more. She had absolutely no idea how on <em>earth<em> he'd managed to keep himself and Kurt barely afloat for so many years on his own, especially when for several of those years he hadn't even known what the problem was. After just a year and a few months, Carole was completely exhausted.

Not that she was complaining, per se. She loved Kurt as a son and she was just as happy to help him as she would be if Finn were in Kurt's shoes (though the thought of Finn screaming in his room with the door tied shut was enough to force her to sit down and catch her breath).

But still. Kurt's impending hospitalization was something she was glad of. Not just because Kurt needed a place where people actually had a clue how to help him, but also because Burt _needed_ a break. Otherwise he could crack under the pressure at any given moment.

Today was Friday, which meant that they had two more days before Kurt's official admittance. Two more days to make sure he knew that they weren't just sending him away so they could be rid of him, and two more days to remind him that he was actually going to be missed. She was already planning on making a big breakfast for Kurt of all his favorite comfort foods, but for the moment both Kurt and Burt seemed to be enjoying the (very) rare luxury of sleeping in, so Carole was making use of the time and collecting the ridiculous amounts of laundry that had been building up over the past several days.

As she toted a basket of whites down the basement stairs, she halted for a second halfway down, surprised by the steady _whir-whir-whir-whir_ coming from the cellar. "Kurt?" she called as she descended the last few steps, hefting the basket in her arms as she saw Kurt jogging on her treadmill. (Once Burt's salary had increased when he was elected, she'd insisted on getting the treadmill for herself, but hadn't ended up using it much as of yet.)

"I'm surprised you're up," she said, dropping the laundry basket in front of the washing machine by the wall.

Kurt didn't reply and she was about to go over and make sure he was there, but she noticed he was wearing his iPod headphones, so she shrugged it off and went back to loading the washer.

Once she was done, she went over to the treadmill. "Hey, Kurt, you want some breakfast?" she called loudly, waving at him to pull out the earbuds.

He nimbly jumped off the treadmill, yanking out the headphones and tossing the wire over his shoulder. "What?"

Carole blinked at the voice. She should have guessed that Truman was the one in control at the moment, considering that Kurt rarely did jogging and he was barely out of breath. "Sorry, I thought Kurt was here."

Kurt shook his head with a smirk, taking a deep gulp from his water bottle. His grey tank top was stained with sweat and plastered to his chest. "I'm just trying to keep Kurt's ass in shape," he said. "Maybe if he got screwed more often he wouldn't be so fucking tense."

Carole winced. "I'd really appreciate you _not_ talking about that kind of thing in front of me, Truman."

Kurt rolled his eyes and took another swig of water. "You're such a prude. Jesus."

"Well, if you want breakfast, I'll be making up some pancakes in a few minutes," she said sharply, annoyed by Truman's insult but deciding not to respond to it. "But you're only welcome at the table if you can be polite."

Kurt snorted and set his water bottle on the top of the dryer. "Yeah, whatever," he said as he turned his back to Carole and pulled his shirt over his head.

Carole turned to leave, then stopped short. "What's that on your back?"

Kurt didn't respond, and Carole stared at the two perfectly round pockmarks – one on his left shoulder blade and the other at the bottom of his left ribs – for several seconds before her heart lurched. "Oh my God…" she breathed.

Kurt grimaced at her over his shoulder. "What the hell are you upset about?"

"Ku— Truman, where did those come from?" Carole pressed.

"Fuck off."

"_Answer me._"

Kurt paused, then turned around with the iciest glare Carole had ever seen on his face. And then she felt her heart almost rip in two.

His chest and torso were peppered with cigarette burns identical to the scars on his back. Small, round, horribly puckered patches of skin scattered in a gut-wrenching caricature of a child's connect-the-dots drawing.

"_Kurt…_" Carole whispered, her hands rising to cover her mouth.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Kurt demanded, pulling her attention back up to his face. "_I'm not Kurt._"

Carole's nerves were far too disquieted to worry about making Truman angry. "Truman, where did those come from?" she asked again, her voice trembling in desperation.

"Would you just fuck off already?" he snapped, snatching his water bottle off the dryer and heading for the stairs.

"Truman, _stop!_" Carole cried, reaching to grab his arm. "I want—"

Kurt whipped around and gripped her wrist, wrenching it in a direction that it wasn't supposed to bend. She yelped and tried unsuccessfully to pull away. "I _told _you to fuck off," he snarled before letting her go.

She backed a few steps away from him, cradling her wrist. "I just want to _help,_" she insisted.

He only rolled his eyes and turned to stomp up the stairs. "Fat bitch," he spat over his shoulder, and the door slammed shut behind him.


	50. Chasing The Rabbit

_Chasing The Rabbit  
><em>

As much as Tina tended to blend into the background most of the time, she made a point to pay attention to the things that happened with all the other members of her little show choir social circle. She was a natural gossip, and so it was fairly easy for her to keep track of all the different quarrels, relationships, breakups, and fall-outs between the fourteen other members of the club, so long as she wasn't involved herself.

She didn't know if trying to keep Mercedes from losing it and Rachel and Quinn from tearing each other's hair out qualified as involvement, but it was about as involved as she cared to be.

It wasn't that Tina didn't care or worry about Kurt, of course. He was one of her first real _friends_, after all. But someone had to step up and manage all the chess pieces on the board, and it was a job that almost always fell to her.

So at lunch on Friday when Quinn changed the topic of conversation to ask Finn if it was true that Kurt had been admitted to the hospital, Tina's radar screen immediately blipped and her field of focus expanded to keep an eye on the people closest to Kurt, all four of whom (Finn, Rachel, Blaine, and Mercedes) had quickly tensed at Quinn's inquiry. The rest of the table fell silent.

"He hasn't moved in yet," Finn answered hesitantly. "But yeah, he's been admitted."

"When does he leave?" asked Blaine softly. Tina was pretty sure she was the only one who noticed just how much Blaine's shoulders had begun to slump.

"Sunday."

"Wow," said Mike. "That's… soon."

Finn nodded wordlessly, toying with the food on his tray.

"Are there going to be other people like him there?" Rory piped up from the other end of the table.

Tina could tell that Finn was already done with answering questions, but he replied anyway with a shake of the head. "I don't think so. Kurt's got kind of a rare problem, and it's not really a place that specializes in any one thing."

"But… isn't that what he needs?"

Tina's jaw clenched and she wanted to stand up, walk over to Rory, and slap the ignorant Irishman soundly across the face, but Santana beat her to the punch and kicked him hard in the shin. He let out a yelp of surprise and scooted his chair a few inches away from Santana and closer to Sugar.

"Do you think the treatment will work?" Mercedes asked, her voice wavering. Tina reached over to squeeze her hand.

Finn let out a long breath. "I don't know."

"We should do something for him," Sam cut in. "Just so he knows we support him."

Tina's eyebrows shot up when Puck was the first to latch on to the suggestion. "Yeah, we could totally throw him a party and send him off in style," he grinned.

Finn grimaced at Puck. "Dude, I'm pretty sure a party's just going to make things worse."

Puck gave him a mockingly offended look. "Not _that_ kind of party, dumbass," he drawled. "I meant something really mellow, like… I don't know, a picnic in the park."

"…It's February."

Puck shrugged. "We could take him to Breadstix, then. I don't know. Kurt could pick it himself."

Finn huffed, half amused and half annoyed, and acquiesced. "Okay, fine. I'll talk to him about it tonight."

"We should get him a present, too," Rachel said, nodding resolutely to herself. "Just in case the party thing falls through. Something from all of us to have in the hospital while he gets better."

Tina jumped when Puck suddenly clapped his hands loudly. "I have the_ perfect_ idea."

"_Not_ anything illegal," Finn interrupted pointedly.

"Would you shut up and give me some credit?" Puck said. "I promise, Kurt's going to _love_ it."

* * *

><p>Finn didn't get home until almost five, since Glee rehearsal had run a little late, and as soon as he hung up his coat in the kitchen he knew something was wrong. Kurt was sitting at the kitchen table, though it was immediately obvious that Eleanor was currently behind the wheel. Carole was standing by the counter, wringing her hands, and Burt was beside her, somehow managing to look livid and terrified at the same time.<p>

"…What's going on?"

Kurt huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at the wall. "They're being fucking _annoying_, that's what," he spat.

"This is not about you, Eleanor!" Burt bellowed, and Carole grabbed his arm. Finn flinched.

"_I KNOW!_" Kurt yelled back, his fists banging against the table. "I'm sick of you blaming me for everything! I'm not showing you because _Kurt_ doesn't want me to!"

Burt's jaw twitched, and Finn remained frozen where he was, still confused and more than a little alarmed. Burt was freaking _scary_ when he wanted to be. "Well, Kurt's just going to have to _get over it_," Burt snarled.

Kurt let out a hoarse, stretched chuckle, his mouth twisting into a half-smile. "Where the hell have you been? Kurt can't 'get over' _anything_."

Burt lurched forward then, looking almost ready to drive his fist through a wall. Carole gripped his shoulder, keeping him steady. "Let me talk to my son," Burt demanded, his voice thick and cracked.

"Don't you _get_ it?" Kurt cried. "_He doesn't want to talk to you!_"

"You think you're helping him, Eleanor, but you're _not!_" Burt shouted. "Bring Kurt back!"

"_No!_"

"BRING HIM BACK!"

"_FUCK YOU!_" Kurt screamed. He launched to his feet and grabbed the edge of the table, flipping it over with a loud crash.

Finn swallowed and shifted where he stood, not sure if he should step in. Carole was crying quietly with a hand over her mouth, and Kurt was standing over the upset table, his eyes burning and his fingers clenching and unclenching by his sides.

"Why do you_ always_ think everything is my fault?" Kurt demanded furiously.

"_Because it usually is!_" Burt roared. "All you care about – all you've _ever _cared about – is _hurting _him! You're sick and cruel, and _nobody_ wants you!"

Finn tensed, holding his breath as Kurt's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. "Nobody ever wants me," he snarled under his breath. "But Kurt_ needs_ me. He doesn't need you. And I'm _not _just going to disappear."

Burt's mouth pressed into a thin line and he drew a long breath, speaking with a harsh growl. "Show me the burns," he said slowly, and Finn's heart skipped several beats. What burns?

Kurt crossed his arms. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's _ALL YOUR FAULT!_" Kurt screeched, his voice abruptly surging in volume. "EVERYTHING! IT'S BECAUSE OF _YOU!_"

Burt froze, and Carole gripped his arm again, her gaze jumping back and forth between Burt, Kurt, and Finn. No one moved for several seconds, at a complete loss for how to react to Kurt's accusation.

After a silence that seemed to stretch on for hours, Kurt's eyelids fluttered and his shoulders slumped, swaying on his feet. Finn remained tense by the door, not sure what to expect. He mentally steeled himself just in case it was Craig who had snatched the wheels away from Eleanor.

"What happened to the table?" asked a small, curious voice.

Finn relaxed somewhat. It was only Zack.

"Zack, I need you to do something for me," Burt said as steadily as he could manage, his words still vibrating with his remaining anger.

Kurt scuffed a shoe against the floor, chewing on a thumbnail. "What is it?"

"I want you to take off your shirt."

Kurt's head snapped up. "Why?"

"Carole says you've been hiding something from us," Burt replied. Kurt shook his head, but Burt continued. "Zack, did someone do something to you?"

"No."

"Zack. Tell the truth."

"No one did anything."

"Then take off your shirt and show me."

Kurt curled his arms around his torso, edging away. The hairs on Finn's neck prickled.

"Go away," Kurt said, glaring at his father as he took another step back.

"I'm not going anywhere," Burt snapped. "Not until you show me the burns."

"Go away." Another step.

"Take off your shirt."

"Go away." Two steps.

Finn shifted nervously. Something wasn't right. "Burt," he said. "Maybe we should give him a minute?"

"I've given him _all day!_" Burt cried. "I want to see what the hell happened to my son!"

"Go away."

"I'm not going anywhere," Burt repeated. "I'm your _father._"

"No, you're not. Craig is."

Still hugging his torso, Kurt turned and ran out of the room. His bedroom door slammed upstairs, and it was only a few moments before the screaming started.


	51. Just Before The Rain

_Just Before The Rain (And Every Time You Disappear)  
><em>

Finn helped Carole set the kitchen table back on its feet as Kurt's screams reverberated through the house, punctuated by a _thump_ every few seconds as he threw some loose object against the walls of his bedroom. Burt was leaning back against the counter, staring into space and looking completely winded with his arms crossed over his chest and his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Burt," Carole said softly once the table was upright again. "You know coming at Kurt that strongly is dangerous for him."

"Well, what the_ hell_ am I supposed to do?" Burt demanded. "I thought Kurt could be trusted to tell me what was going on."

Carole sighed. "Burt, it's possible that Kurt didn't even knowhe had those burns."

Finn interrupted then. "What burns?"

"Kurt has cigarette burns. A lot of them," his mom replied.

Finn's eyebrows snapped together. "What? That's impossible – we'd have noticed something like that."

Carole shook her head, her eyes still misty. "They're recent, Finn. From what I could tell, they weren't even fully healed yet."

The three of them flinched and glanced at the ceiling as there was a particularly loud scream from upstairs.

"Finn, can you go up and make sure he's not doing anything to hurt himself?" Carole asked, squeezing Finn's arm. He swallowed and nodded, understanding that she wanted to talk to Burt in private.

Steeling his nerves, Finn left the kitchen and headed up the stairs, stopping outside of Kurt's room. Kurt was still screaming, and Finn jumped as something made of glass shattered loudly against the other side of the door. Gritting his teeth, Finn pulled the handle open to make sure Kurt wasn't going for the broken glass. On the floor just inside the door were the fragments of a glass picture frame, a photograph of Burt and Carole at their wedding lying bent and scratched in the middle.

"Zack, are you—"

Finn didn't get to finish his question. Kurt, who had been pacing the room in haphazard circles as he screamed unintelligibly, whipped around at Finn's voice and didn't hesitate before launching himself at the door. There was a split second during which Finn realized that Kurt wasn't wearing a shirt and just as Carole had said his torso was dotted with burned pockmarks, but Finn didn't have time to fully process that image. His reflexes kicked in and he yanked the door shut just in time to keep Kurt contained, and the door rattled as Kurt beat against it, shrieking.

Finn struggled to keep his hold on the handle as Kurt tried to twist it from the other side, the door shuddering in its frame as Finn reached for the rope hanging off the bike hook drilled into the wall beside it. With his free hand, he shakily looped the rope around the door handle and pulled it tight, exhaling heavily and stepping back once he was sure the knot wouldn't give way. The door pulled back a quarter of an inch, the rope going taut as the handle turned back and forth. Kurt gave a screech of frustration and slammed into the door one last time before Finn heard his scraping footsteps recede.

* * *

><p>The only thing Kurt could see were his own hands curled into his bedsheets, his knuckles turned white and the edges of his vision going fuzzy and dark. He blinked and tried to focus on the rocket ships printed on the sheet, imagining that maybe if he were on a rocket ship now it wouldn't hurt so much and he could just fly away. He didn't really get why Franklin was doing this again, why they couldn't just watch TV or something else more fun, but by this point it had already happened a couple times. So Kurt could handle it. Three times was enough to adjust. He didn't even have to cry any more.<p>

Franklin's mouth pressed against the back of Kurt's neck, wet and hot, stubble scraping against Kurt's skin. His hand slid down between Kurt's legs, and for once Kurt didn't flinch as the calloused palm brushed over the sensitive skin. "_Good boy_," Franklin grunted as he stabbed into Kurt over and over again.

Kurt gripped his sheets, gritted his teeth, and waited for the extra-painful burst in his gut that he'd learned was the signal that it was ending.

When the burst finally did come, Kurt dug his teeth into his lip, his fists tightening, and he managed to let out only a short whimper as a searing flame raced up his spine and crackled in his head like a firework. There was a loud sucking sound as Franklin pulled away with a satisfied sigh, and Kurt stayed where he was, feeling stickiness between his legs and a soreness in his lungs.

"_You're getting better at this, kiddo_," said Franklin, sounding muffled and very far away.

Kurt didn't respond or move, but he felt Franklin's fingers rubbing at the burning spot between his legs like an afterthought. Instead of crying like he would've done when this first started the day before yesterday, he counted silently in his head.

One.

"_You're going to be a pro at this pretty soon._"

Two.

Franklin's hand moved from between Kurt's legs to Kurt shoulder, pulling him back. "_Hey, come on. I want to go again but I've got to be hard first._"

Three.

Kurt didn't bother to struggle as Franklin lifted him onto his lap. He could feel that Franklin was already half-hard (he'd learned what that meant over the past two days; Franklin had taught him a lot) beneath him, and it twitched against his bare bottom as he settled down.

Four.

"I don't want to," Kurt said flatly.

Franklin's almost affectionate smile vanished. "_Excuse me?_"

Five.

"I'm tired. I want to go to bed."

Franklin's hand shot up and cuffed him lightly over the head. Not nearly hard enough to bruise and barely hard enough to even hurt, so Kurt didn't react. "_We went over this already, kiddo. Your mom and dad told you I'm in charge. You have to do what I say._" Franklin's hands squeezed Kurt's thighs. "_Don't want to disappoint them, do you?_"

Six.

"Okay."

"_Good._" The smile was back, and Kurt felt relieved. He didn't like it when Franklin was mad, because then bad things happened.

Seven.

Kurt braced his hands on Franklin's shoulders and started to move his hips back and forth the way Franklin had told him to. Maybe if he did an extra good job this time Franklin would take him out for pizza.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

* * *

><p>Ten minutes later, Kurt still hadn't quieted down and Finn had settled on the floor in the hallway to do some homework while keeping watch on Kurt's door. He wasn't that great at multitasking, though, so he ended up spacing out at the floor as he listened to the screams and cries from his brother's room. He was stuck with the image of the burns scattered across Kurt's chest in his head, and he couldn't quite figure out what the hell had triggered this <em>big <em>of a reaction. It wasn't unusual for Kurt to yell or scream or cry, but for it to go on for this long was rare and had to be a bad sign.

Finn jumped nearly three feet when his phone went off shrilly in his pocket. He fished it out quickly and pressed the Talk button. "Now's not a good time, Rach, can I call you back?"

There was a pause on the other end. "…_Oh my god, is that Kurt?_" Rachel asked, and Finn winced. He should've realized she'd easily be able to hear the screams.

"Uhh… yeah."

"_Oh my god._"

"Rachel, I need to hang up. Just text me or something, okay?"

"_O-okay._"

The line clicked and Finn's phone buzzed a few seconds later with the arrival of Rachel's text, but Finn tossed the phone to the side. He didn't have the space in his head for anything else right now. Rachel was just going to have to wait.


	52. Paint Your Rosy Glasses Red

_Paint Your Rosy Glasses Red  
><em>

The first thing Kurt felt when he came around was a sharp pain in his hand, and he yelped and yanked it away from whatever was causing the sting.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," said Carole's voice, and Kurt blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the light. He was in the upstairs bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub. Carole was in front of him, sitting on top of the toilet and pulling his hands back to her lap. "Sorry, honey, I know it hurts," she said, squeezing his knee and swiping a damp cotton swab over his palms.

"_Ow,_" he hissed as his skin stung. This time, he managed not to pull away. He frowned at his palms, each of which sported several open cuts – small slices that could have been made by a razor blade or broken glass. They hadn't scabbed over yet, but they weren't really bleeding either, and Kurt was relieved that none of them looked too deep. He grimaced when he saw the small jagged shards of glass flecked with blood resting in a tiny pile on the counter next to the sink, along with a pair of tweezers, and he was grateful that he hadn't been awake when Carole had pulled them out.

"What did I do?" he asked as Carole set the cotton swabs and disinfectant on the sink counter.

She smiled at him. "Hey, sweetie, welcome back," she said, wrapping a thin layer of bandages around his hands. "Zack was having a bit of a hard time this afternoon."

Kurt exhaled slowly. "Did you have to lock him up?"

"I'm sorry, honey," Carole sighed. "I wish there was some other way of dealing with it when that happens, but nothing really seems to calm them down except letting them wear themselves out."

"It's fine." Kurt was quiet for a long time, debating whether or not he wanted to know what had triggered it.

Carole broke the silence first. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Kurt had to think for a moment before responding. "Talking to Artie on the phone just after I got up." He glanced out the tiny bathroom window, frowning when he realized it was dark out. "Wait, what time is it?"

"Almost nine."

"Is it still Friday?"

"Yeah, you just missed about fourteen hours, give or take," Carole explained. "Truman was here in the morning, Eleanor was out for most of the day, and then Zack woke up around five."

Kurt's heart twisted painfully in his chest. He was losing more and more time, disappearing for longer stretches, and he knew it. He fleetingly wondered how long it would be before he would miss entire days or weeks. If it came to that.

Carole finished tying the bandage on his left hand and moved on to his right. "Kurt, I need you to answer something honestly."

His eyebrows snapped together. "Okay…"

Carole paused her work to look him in the eye. "Were you hiding the burns from us?"

Kurt stared at her, at a loss for how to respond. He felt his stomach wrench in his gut, and the base of his throat began to ache. He swallowed, letting out a long breath. "I… I didn't know how to tell you and Dad."

Carole's eyes were brimming, her hands on his knees. "Kurt, the only thing we want is to help you," she said. "We can't do that if you don't tell us these things. You _owe _it to us to be honest, sweetie. I _need_ to help you, Finn needs to help you, and your dad definitely needs to help you, or else he'll go crazy. Do you understand?"

Kurt nodded silently since his throat hurt a little too much to talk. Carole leaned forward to press a quick kiss to his forehead.

"Do you mind taking off your shirt?" she asked. "I've got some stuff to help the burns heal."

Kurt drew a breath to steady his nerves before grabbing his shirt to pull it over his head. "Ow!" he hissed as a fresh sting stabbed sharply through the skin on his neck.

"You okay?" Carole asked, her eyebrows knitted together.

Kurt winced as he prodded the depression behind his ear. Carole reached up and gently turned his head to the side.

"You've got another burn," she said.

"Great."

"It'll be fine," she insisted. "You'll be fine."

Carole helped him pull off his shirt, and once it was off Kurt had to resist the impulse to wrap his arms around his chest and hide himself as much as possible. Carole didn't say anything as she rubbed a small amount of ointment over each burn. Kurt purposefully stared at the tiled wall until she was finished.

"By the way," she said once she was done, recapping the little tube of burn salve. "You have a pool party to go to tomorrow."

"What?"

Carole smiled as she began to put away the first-aid kit. "You can blame Zack. He overheard Finn on the phone with Puck."

Kurt blinked at her. "Still confused."

"All your school friends wanted to throw a little party for you before you left," she explained, still smiling. "But Zack heard Finn and Puck talking about it an hour ago and decided he wanted it to be at the community pool."

"…Seriously?"

"Yep."

"But… I can't go to something like that…" Kurt trailed off.

Carole shook her head, sitting back down on top of the toilet to look Kurt in the eye. "Kurt, you've got to understand that this party isn't about you. They want to give you a party because they love you and they want you to know it. It's not for you; it's for them."

Kurt swallowed. "But what if I switch?" he pressed. There were too many variables he had already thought of in the past thirty seconds – not the least of which was that his two youngest alters both had no idea how to swim – and for God's sake, he didn't want to be _seen_ like this. Not rapidly switching between alters and covered in cigarette burns and with hair that still hadn't really started to grow back.

Carole reached up and squeezed his shoulder. "Your dad and I are going to be there with you the entire time, and Finn will be there too. We're not going to leave you to deal with this on your own, but we're not about to let you shut yourself off completely, either."

Kurt hung his head for a moment, blinking back a sudden onset of tears and mumbling something a little too quiet for Carole to hear.

"What'd you say?" she asked.

With his throat burning, Kurt repeated himself. "I don't want to hurt anyone."

Carole pressed her lips together, taking Kurt's hands in hers, and spoke firmly. "Kurt, you have never hurt anyone, and you never will. As for the alters, we're not going to let them. They need to understand that_ you_ are going to win this fight."

"But what if I don't?"

Carole shook her head vehemently. "That's not possible. Kurt, you're the strongest person I've ever met. That includes your alters."

By this point, Kurt had lost the fight to hold his tears back and was now battling to breathe without shaking (another fight he was currently losing). "I'm just—" He hiccoughed and wiped his cheeks on the back of his hand. "I'm tired of this. I'm sick of it, and I-I don't want to fight any more."

"Tough luck, sweetie."

Kurt blinked in surprise. "What?" he sniffed.

"I said, tough luck. None of this should have _ever_ happened to you, Kurt. But it did, and now you don't have a choice."


	53. Frozen Strawberries

_Frozen Strawberries  
><em>

With his hands bandaged and his burns treated, Kurt returned to his room to find several of his remaining possessions strewn over the floor, the fragile pieces all smashed irreparably. Kurt sighed in annoyance and exhaustion, then retrieved the broom from the upstairs closet and set about sweeping up the damage. Still, it could have been worse.

Finn appeared in the doorway just as Kurt was sweeping the last few shards of what had been a picture frame into the dustpan. "Hey," he said. "Mom said you were back."

"Yeah, hi." Kurt glanced up at his stepbrother for a second before standing up and dumping the dustpan's contents into the trashcan by his desk. Finn stayed where he was, his jaw clenching like he was trying to figure out how to say something potentially harmful. "…You okay?" Kurt asked.

"I'm sorry I called you crazy," Finn blurted, his words rushing together.

Kurt blinked, too surprised to do anything but return the statement with a blank stare.

"…In the hospital, I mean," said Finn with a slight stammer. "I-I was just pissed and tired and— Are you mad at me?"

"No," Kurt said.

Finn nodded, still nervous. "Good."

"You were right."

Finn's head snapped up. "What? No, Kurt—"

"Finn, there's no point pretending I'm not missing a few crucial wingnuts, all right?" Kurt cut him off with a tone that was almost irritated, setting the broom back against the wall.

His stepbrother swallowed, then came over and sat on the end of Kurt's bed. "You know I don't actually think you're crazy, right?"

"Yes, you do," Kurt sighed. Finn opened his mouth to protest, but Kurt waved him off. "That's okay, though. There's no reason to expect anything different."

"No, I'm serious," Finn insisted, looking Kurt firmly in the eye. "I really don't think you're crazy. Like, at all."

Kurt frowned in confusion, not really sure where Finn was going with this or why he was doing this now. "…Why not?"

Finn shrugged, scratching at the hair behind his ear. "You've been through a _lot _of really scary crap, dude. Splitting so you can get rid of that stuff?" Another shrug. "That just seems like the most logical thing in the world."

For a moment, Kurt was elated at the notion that his brother thought he was actually a normal human being, but then he remembered exactly why Finn had come into his room in the first place, and his frown deepened. "Well, then why did you say I was insane?" he asked levelly. "People tend to speak honestly when they're that pissed off."

A shadow flitted over Finn's face and he looked away. "I wasn't talking about the alters," he said. "I was talking about what you did to yourself to end up in the hospital. _That _was crazy, and I'll stand by that."

"…You just said you were sorry for saying it."

"I am. But I wasn't wrong, and I swear to God that if you _ever _pull a stunt like that again, I'm going to punch you in the nuts."

Kurt's jaw clacked shut.

* * *

><p>After Finn had gone to bed and Kurt had completely finished cleaning up his room, Kurt headed downstairs, feeling restless. In the kitchen, he found Burt sitting at the table with a mug in his hands and a weary expression.<p>

"Since when do you drink tea?" Kurt greeted him.

Burt glanced up, rubbing his eyes. "Since Carole started bugging me to take sleeping aids. I don't want the pills, so chamomile it is." He raised the mug in Kurt's direction before taking a sip.

Kurt sat down across from him, not really sure if he wanted to think about just how much sleep his father was losing every night because of him. "Well, at least someone's looking out for your health while I'm not here." They fell into a long silence punctuated by an occasional quiet slurp as Burt drank his tea. Kurt leaned his chin on his fist. "Are you okay, Dad?"

Burt gave a forced smile and flapped a hand at him. "You've got enough to worry about, kiddo. You don't need to listen to me grumble."

Kurt made a face. "Oh, come on, Dad. Don't do that." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "You always want to know how I'm doing; it goes both ways."

His dad sighed, staring into his still slightly steaming mug. "Okay," he said eventually, taking a sip and looking Kurt in the eye. "I'm pissed off."

Kurt tried not to wince as he felt his heart try to wriggle back and hide behind his lungs. "…About the burns?" he asked, trying not to let his voice shake.

"Well, that's part of it," Burt replied candidly, rubbing a hand over his forehead and pulling off his baseball cap to toss it onto the table between them. "Kurt, you… you don't have a _right_ to hide something like that from me. You're right – it's got to go two ways, but that means you've got to hold up your end of the bargain."

Kurt swallowed. "I was just… scared." It was a lame excuse at best, Kurt knew.

"How do you think I feel?" Burt snapped curtly. Kurt flinched, not quite subtly enough for Burt to miss, and Burt's tone softened. "Kurt, when Carole told me about the burns, I…" He trailed off for a second, shaking his head. "I really didn't know what to do. They don't exactly train parents for this kind of thing, you know? And that… It was a hell of a lot more terrifying than Craig pushing me into traffic."

"I'm sorry," Kurt whispered, his eyes burning.

Burt shook his head again. "Kurt, I am_ so _proud to be your dad. Really. I don't think there are enough words in the English language to express that. Just the fact that you've made it this far is incredible, and I'm not a religious guy but I still thank God every day that you were born."

Kurt stared at the tabletop, his throat stretching painfully as shame and embarrassment clawed at the bottom of his stomach. He wasn't ready for his dad to be talking about him like this.

Burt wasn't finished, though, and Kurt remained stock still while he continued. "But as proud as I am? I am _just_ as angry that you got dealt the hand you did. I'm pissed that you have to go through all this, I'm pissed that someone even _thought_ it was okay to hurt you, I'm pissed that we don't even _know_ who hurt you, I'm pissed that your mom's not here, and I'm pissed that I couldn't protect you from any of this."

Kurt flinched a second time as Burt's voice cracked on the last few words. "You've done the best you can, Dad," he said.

"Apparently my best wasn't enough," Burt muttered. He huffed, sniffed, and leaned back. "Well, I think the tea's starting to kick in, so I'm gonna hit the sack." Yawning, he stood up and ran a hand absentmindedly over his scalp.

Kurt stood up as well. "I think I'll make some coffee."

"Don't feel like sleeping?"

Kurt shrugged. "Not really."

Burt didn't question it, instead choosing to pull Kurt into a tight bear hug. Kurt took a deep breath, relieved that his dad still felt just as solid as he had for the entire duration of Kurt's life. Nothing else had quite held its form for that long.

"I love you, all right?" Burt said, a hand on the back of Kurt's head.

Kurt nodded against Burt's shoulder. "I love you too," he said, completely failing at keeping his voice steady.

Finally, Burt let go and stepped back. "Try to get some sleep, okay?" He gave Kurt's shoulder one last firm pat before bidding him a good night and heading upstairs.

* * *

><p>"<em>Shut up and hold still.<em>"

"_God, that's good._"

"_You're the best I ever had, Kurt. You want some cake?_"

"_That's it, right there— GOD—_"

"_You have to do what I say, or your dad's gonna be pissed._"

"_Watch the teeth._"

"_Use your tongue, damn it. Pretend it's an ice cream cone._"

* * *

><p>Kurt woke up covered in sweat, and immediately emptied his stomach into the trash can by his bed.<p> 


	54. Family Matters

_Family Matters  
><em>

In the morning, Burt went into the office to get some work done while Carole drove Kurt to the doctor's office for the required physical exam. Dr. Hallaway, who had been the Hummels' family doctor since Kurt was born, was more than familiar with Kurt's instabilities and barely batted an eye at the burns peppering Kurt's skin, though he seemed more than sympathetic and did ask where they'd come from. Kurt only replied that he didn't know and Dr. Hallaway backed off the subject, carefully working around the still-healing burns for the rest of the examination.

The afternoon approached much too quickly for Kurt, and during lunch he only seemed to grow more and more agitated. Carole kept a careful eye on him while he ate halfheartedly, but thankfully Kurt stayed where he was and none of the alters snatched the reins from him. Carole knew he was anxious about going to a public place with all of his school friends, most of whom hadn't seen him since he'd left McKinley, but she also knew (or at least hoped) that Kurt understood why the party was important. It wasn't even a _party_, really. They'd all just be hanging out at the community indoor pool for a few hours and nothing more, so it shouldn't be too stressful on anyone's part.

Kurt helped Carole clean up after lunch, clearly deep in thought and not in the mood to talk, but since he'd managed to stay himself all day so far, Carole wasn't about to push him. Burt came home just after one o'clock and quickly changed out of his suit, then the three of them piled into Burt's truck and drove to downtown Lima.

"Finn's meeting us there?" Kurt said halfway through the car ride. It was the first time he'd spoken since the physical exam that morning.

Carole smiled back at him from the front passenger seat. "Don't worry, he'll be there," she assured her stepson, knowing that Kurt probably wouldn't have been willing to go at all if Finn wasn't going too. "He just spent the morning with Rachel."

Kurt nodded and continued to watch the cars pass by outside the window.

Out of everything that they as a makeshift family had gone through together as they dealt with all the complications from Kurt's illness, Carole was the most shocked by and grateful for the fact that Finn had inadvertently become the rock under Kurt's feet. Obviously Finn would never replace Kurt's father in the area of unconditional support, but Kurt's demeanor was strikingly different between the times Finn was there and when he wasn't.

That horrible, gut-wrenching day in late October a year and a half ago when Finn had called her at work, panicking with Kurt's yells in the background echoing off the locker room walls, had unquestionably been the most confusing and terrifying day in both her own life and Finn's. She had immediately called Burt at the shop, told her boss she'd suddenly come down with the flu, and rushed home to help Burt and Finn force a spitting, thrashing, scratching, screaming Kurt into the house from the car. (She didn't even _want_ to know how they'd managed to get him into the car in the first place.)

She and Finn had stood uselessly by while Burt struggled to restrain Kurt and talked to him rapidly and urgently, neither of them understanding _anything_ that was happening. It had been at least an hour before Kurt started to calm down, even though he'd still seemed to be caught in whatever emotional seizure he'd been having, but Burt had at least managed to get him to stop kicking and hitting. Then, Burt had sternly said "Go to your room, Eleanor," and a tiny spark of understanding had ignited in Carole's brain (though Finn had just been confused further).

Once Kurt had left, Burt had sat Carole and Finn down in the living room and explained everything, and later that night (Kurt still hadn't come back, though by the sound of it he'd only gone to sleep) Carole had stayed up three hours past her usual bedtime talking with Finn.

"Honey, I've already made my decision about it, but if you want to leave, that's completely okay," she'd told him while sitting on the edge of his bed near midnight. "I won't put anything on your shoulders that you don't want, and Burt will just have to understand if that's how you feel."

Finn had gone quiet for several minutes before finally speaking up. "I want to leave," he'd said. "But… I kind of figure Kurt's my brother like it or not now, so… I think I'd regret it for the rest of my life if I didn't stay."

It hadn't been until the next afternoon (after Kurt had returned and recovered from the initial embarrassment of learning that Finn and Carole both knew) that Kurt had been able to, with some coaching from Burt, inform them that the Karofsky kid had kissed him out of nowhere.

And, frankly, Finn had seemed a little more shocked by the fact that Karofsky was gay than he'd been by Kurt's illness, though it was a pretty close second.

As they pulled into the parking lot in front of the fitness center, Carole spotted Finn just climbing out of his own truck with Rachel, who waved excitedly and immediately ran up and ambushed Kurt with a crushing hug.

"Oh my God, I've missed you _so_ much!" she cried, her arms latched around his shoulders.

Carole could see that Kurt was startled by the onslaught of affection, but he did his best to smile and hug Rachel back, telling her he missed her too.

"Hey, dude," Finn gave Kurt a brotherly nudge with his elbow, since both his hands were occupied with a large heavy cooler. "We brought sodas."

"Rachel, honey, could you run in and see how many people are here already?" Carole requested, patting Rachel's shoulder.

"Absolutely," Rachel nodded and trotted through the fitness center's double doors. Finn told the three of them he'd see them inside and followed after her.

Carole looped an arm around Kurt's back. "You ready, sweetheart?"

Kurt took a deep breath, his breath fogging in the air in front of his nose. "Yeah," he said. "Let's get this over with."

Burt smiled and clapped Kurt on the shoulder. "Come on, kiddo. Try to have fun with this, okay? You've got a lot of friends; enjoy them."

* * *

><p>At the indoor pool, Rachel was glad to see that the only people present were Glee members. The pool area was always kept nice and warm, but during the winter there were fewer people who wanted to swim laps or even just hang out, so it was actually not a bad idea to host the party there. (She used the term 'party' loosely, however. Before Kurt had been forbidden to come back to school, this would've just been a weekend hangout.)<p>

Setting her bag on one of the chairs by the pool at the back, she took off her coat and did a head count. Everyone in the club had been invited (even Quinn, much to her personal chagrin, though that wasn't up to her and Quinn did want to support Kurt), but so far only six had shown up. Tina and Mike, universally known as The Prompt Ones, were already dunking each other in the water and waved at Rachel when she walked in. Quinn was sitting on the pool's edge with Artie at the shallow end, their feet dangling in the water (Artie's wheelchair was sitting unoccupied but attentively beside them). Brittany and Santana were both reclining in their chairs behind Quinn and Artie, Brittany currently complaining that she wasn't getting tanned fast enough.

"Britt, we're inside," Santana reminded her.

Rachel, who had had the foresight to just wear her bathing suit underneath her clothing, quickly stripped down and then went to join the others at the side of the pool.

"Where's Kurt?" asked Artie, leaning back on his hands.

"He's on his way in with Mr. Hummel and Ms. Hudson," she replied, plopping down and dropping her feet into the warm water. Finn banged through the door then, toting the cooler of sodas.

"Yo, Gigantor!" Artie raised a hand in greeting.

"Do you know who else is coming?" Rachel asked, knowing that Artie was probably the most connected with the entirety of the club (he was, after all, the elected manager of the Glee Club phone tree).

Artie nodded. "So far, pretty much everyone. The only ones I was unclear on were Blaine and Rory. It's still early, though."

"Rory didn't come with Brittany?"

"Britt said something along the lines of her mom making him clean up after a dance rehearsal in the living room gone wrong," Artie replied with a shrug. "At least, I think that's what she was talking about. As for Blaine, who knows? He's just been weird about the whole thing."

"I don't really blame him for that," Quinn cut in from Artie's other side. Rachel had to suppress the urge to reach around Artie and smack her.

The door swung open again, and this time Kurt entered, followed by his dad and Finn's mom. For a moment, Rachel was afraid that Brittany, Tina, and Mike (the only ones in the room who hadn't seen Kurt since his breakdown on school grounds) wouldn't recognize him. He was dressed in a plain pair of sweatpants, an olive green t-shirt with a distinct lack of flair, and the same grey hoodie he'd worn when Rachel and Finn had taken him to the Lima Bean only to run into Quinn. Not to mention his hair, which had really only grown about a quarter of an inch since Carole had buzzed it.

But there was only a half a second of silence before Brittany leaped up from her chair, shrieked in excitement, and threw her arms around Kurt's neck. Kurt jumped at the abruptness of her approach, but returned the hug.

"How was your quest?" she asked once she'd stepped back. "Santana told me _all _about it. I'm sorry the dragon burned off your hair, cause it was really pretty."

Kurt blinked. "It… was fine," he said, casting a confused look in Santana's direction.

Brittany grinned. "I told you, unicorns_ always_ win their quests. I'm glad you're back."

By now, Mike and Tina had climbed out of the pool, Quinn and Santana both standing up to greet Kurt. Rachel was helping Artie back into his chair.

"I don't want to get you wet, dude," said Mike. "But I totally want to hug you right now, too."

It was a moment before the smile spread across Kurt's face, but when it did, he looked genuinely happy for the first time that Rachel had seen since early January. It was only a month and a half, but to Rachel (ever the drama queen) it felt like an eternity.

* * *

><p>Within the next twenty minutes, the rest of the Glee members (aside from Blaine, who had yet to be heard from) had showed up and were crowding the pool hall. Carole was lounging and monitoring the soda intake while Burt hung out in the shallow end, staying out of the kids' activities and keeping an eye on Kurt. Finn was doing the same while he laughed and splashed with the rest of the kids, repeatedly glancing over at Kurt every few minutes just to make sure that his posture and expression stayed the same.<p>

Finn was glad that Kurt was wearing a shirt on top of his swim trunks. Kurt didn't need to deal with the stress that would've resulted from the Glee kids seeing the cigarette burns. However, it was really only a matter of minutes before someone noticed the fresh burn on his neck behind his ear.

As Santana climbed atop Puck's shoulders and challenged Kurt to knock her into the water, Finn leaned back against the wall of the pool to watch. Kurt clambered up onto Sam's shoulders and as he and Santana battled it out and the rest of the kids cheered, Rachel swam over to stand next to Finn.

"How do you think he's doing?" she asked, watching Kurt laugh and try to keep his balance on his perch (not an easy task, considering that he was just as tall as Sam was).

"I think he's okay," Finn replied, draping an arm over her shoulders. "Thanks for warning everyone about the hair thing; it'd freak him out if they were asking questions to his face."

Rachel smiled up at him and glanced over to where Mercedes was hanging back, watching the battle between Kurt and Santana with an odd expression that was a mix of pride, love, and fear. "How do you think _she's_ doing?"

Finn looked over the top of Rachel's head. "Think I should talk with her?"

"Maybe. I'm just hoping Kurt doesn't switch while we're here."

"I think you just spoke for everyone on that," Finn replied. He let out a whoop and clapped loudly as Kurt finally succeeded in pushing Santana back off of Puck's shoulders and the Latina disappeared underwater with a big splash.

"_HA!_" Kurt crowed, pumping his fists above his head. Santana resurfaced with a splutter and a few colorful Spanish swears.

"You think Blaine'll show up?" Finn wondered aloud, glancing down at his girlfriend.

Rachel sighed. "I don't know. I love Blaine and I think he really does care about Kurt just as much as he says he does, but… I don't want Kurt to get upset. So, I hope he doesn't come."

Finn nodded in agreement, unsure of how they'd be able to handle it if Kurt was prompted to a transition. The few people who had actually seen one or two alters still had no idea how to react to them, and that included Rachel.

"Still, don't worry about any of that until you have to," Rachel said, squeezing Finn's hand. "Kurt's having a good time; let him."

* * *

><p>After Kurt had finally been knocked into the water by Quinn, he threw up his hands and admitted defeat, allowing Brittany to climb up on Sam's shoulders to take his place. Mercedes tensed involuntarily as Kurt waded through the shallow end to come over and stand beside her, still managing to keep his distance.<p>

"Hey, Cedes," he said, a careful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Hi," she replied. "How are you?" She mentally kicked herself for the stupid question.

Kurt took it in stride, though, and only leaned back against the wall to watch Quinn and Brittany push at each other as he spoke. "I'm not going to lie to you; the last few weeks have been hard," he said slowly, as if he were still thinking out what he wanted to say. "But… but I think I'm starting to feel like I could be better."

For the first time since Mercedes had witnessed Kurt screaming and writhing on the floor of the choir room while Finn pinned him down, she didn't have to force a smile for him. "That's great," she said, the relief in her voice almost tangible. "I've really missed you."

"I missed you too." Kurt returned the smile, finally crossing the nearly-palpable boundary between them and yanking Mercedes into a quick but solid hug. "By the way," he said after pulling back. "I love your swimsuit. This shade of blue really compliments your skin tone."

Mercedes involuntarily let out a chuckle. "Yep, you're definitely Kurt," she said.

There was a shriek and a splash and Kurt and Mercedes looked over to where Quinn had just toppled off of Puck's shoulders, accidentally dragging Puck underwater with her. The both of them came up laughing and coughing as Brittany clapped at her own triumph. Kurt whooped, grinning widely as Puck tried to get the water out of his ears.

Something out of the corner of Mercedes' eye caught her attention, and her eyebrows snapped together. "Kurt, what is that?" she asked.

His attention was redirected back to her. "What's what?"

"On your neck," she said, reaching up towards his face to turn his head. "Let me see."

Abruptly, Kurt flinched away, the water splashing a little around his torso. Mercedes yanked her hand back into her own personal space, confused by his reaction. He immediately looked apologetic, avoiding her inquiring gaze and very purposefully turning to the left so that she wasn't able to see the odd-looking mark in the depression behind his ear.

"Um, sorry," he said, seeming to be slightly confused by his own actions. Mercedes frowned, noticing over Kurt's shoulder that Mr. Hummel had seen the odd exchange and was making his way over.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "Did I do something?"

Kurt shook his head, but was still agitated and not meeting her gaze, clearly staying at least three feet back on purpose. "No, no," he said. "Of course not. I just…"

His shoulders slumped and he blinked a few times, then glanced around himself in confusion.

Mr. Hummel finally reached them, worriedly glancing back and forth between Kurt and Mercedes. "Kurt, you alright?"

Kurt blinked again. "Kurt went to sleep," he said, and Mercedes nearly jumped out of her skin at the small, impossibly young voice that came out of Kurt's mouth.

Mr. Hummel calmly placed a firm hand on Kurt's shoulder. "Zack, I need you to do me a favor and bring Kurt back, okay?" he said. "Right now. Think you can do that?"

Kurt shook his head resolutely. "Nope."

He failed to hide a wide smile, and Mercedes tried not to let herself shudder. This particular alter wasn't really threatening, but that didn't make it any less disturbing to see Kurt suddenly revert into a child. Mercedes wanted to scream and shake him to _snap the hell out of it_.

"Zack—" Burt started.

Kurt shook his head again, giggling. "I want to go swimming."

* * *

><p>Blaine really wasn't sure what had made him decide to suck it up and drive to the Lima community pool where he knew the party for Kurt was taking place (and why the hell had they picked a <em>pool<em>, anyways?), but he didn't really want to put much thought into it. He pulled his car into the parking lot and locked it behind him, shivering slightly in the late February chill. He pushed through the double doors and was enveloped by the warm air inside, making his way past the front desk and down the hallway to the locker room and from there to the door marked _INDOOR POOL_.

He paused for a moment, taking a few slow, deep breaths to try and calm his nerves. He'd attempted several times already to convince himself that he hadn't just been invited as a barely-concealed reluctant courtesy, but that hadn't worked so well.

He swallowed the lump of trepidation that seemed to be lodged in his esophagus and walked through the door, then stopped short. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't this.

There was nothing wrong, but at the same time… _everything _was wrong.

They were having fun. All of the Glee kids were already there, and everybody (except for Burt and Carole, who were hanging back against the wall and just enjoying the spectacle) was completely engaged in a game of haphazard water polo in the shallow end. They were laughing and swimming as they flailed to keep the ball in the air, and Kurt was fully participating despite the fact it was immediately obvious that _Kurt_ was not there.

Rachel yelped as the ball came whizzing toward her from Mike's direction and quickly swatted it towards Sam, who smacked it back up into the air. Kurt leaped up and caught it, falling back into the water with a splash. He kicked around for a few seconds trying to right himself before Finn, who had been standing attentively next to him, reached down and snatched him back up above the surface. Kurt gave a wide, toothy grin and blinked water out of his eyes.

"You okay?" Blaine heard Finn ask, half concerned and half amused.

Rather than answer, Kurt giggled and tossed the ball playfully at Puck's head. Puck pretended not to see the ball and allowed it to smack him on the ear, letting out an exaggerated "Ow!" quickly followed by "I am so going to get you for that!" Kurt shrieked and darted back, still giggling as Puck chased after him.

Blaine didn't know what was more shocking – the fact that Burt, Carole, and Finn all seemed completely okay with this, or that the rest of the kids were okay with it too.

He must have stood there watching the goings-on in the pool for at least a full minute before Brittany noticed his presence and waved at him. "Hi, Blaine! Come on in!"

Blaine flinched as every head in the pool hall (except for Kurt, for whom Blaine's name currently held no meaning whatsoever) turned towards him in surprise, a few of them glancing back and forth between him and Kurt with an expression not unlike pity.

"You're late, Anderson," Artie called from where he was lounging in an inflatable chair on top of the water, his pale skinny legs stretched out in front of him.

"S-sorry," Blaine replied lamely, keenly aware that Finn was watching him intently (along with Rachel and Mercedes, but the look was much more nerve-wracking coming from Finn).

"ZACK!" Burt barked abruptly, causing everyone to jump. Kurt froze where he was, looking oddly like a mouse. "I told you to splash _over there_!"

"Okay," Kurt replied simply, immediately turning his attention to Finn. "Finn, can you do the rocket?"

Finn cast one final suspicious look in Blaine's direction before nodding. "Sure," he said. "Come on, you know the drill." He interlocked his fingers and stuck his hands below the water, allowing Kurt to plant a foot on his joint palms. Kurt braced his hands on Finn's shoulders and they counted loudly together, Kurt's mouth stretched to a full grin all the while.

"Five! Four! Three! Two! One! _LIFT OFF!_"

How Finn managed to launch Kurt's entire weight up and over his shoulder, Blaine would never know.

* * *

><p>After today, Tina was pretty sure she deserved to win the Multitasker Of The Year award, should such an award actually exist. Her figurative radar screen had been forced to its limits within the past hour and a half, including not just Kurt and the people closest to him, but everyone else as well. She was constantly on the lookout for <em>anything<em> that held a remote possibility of triggering a switch, and once Zack had taken Kurt's place, Tina was even more alert.

Part of the reason she was having a difficult time keeping an eye on everyone else was that it was so _weird_ seeing Kurt act so childishly. It was Kurt's face and Kurt's body, but it just was _not_ Kurt, and Tina couldn't fathom how Quinn was still maintaining that Kurt was there and aware of what he was doing.

She supposed it could be possible that Quinn was just kind of in denial, not wanting to accept that something this real could be happening inside the head of someone she knew so well, but Tina didn't think that was any excuse.

So, when she heard Quinn speak to Kurt and actually call him Kurt to his face for the fifth time since Zack had shown up, Tina tapped Quinn on the shoulder and asked to talk with her off to the side, making it clear that she was _not_ asking.

"What's wrong?" Quinn said once the two of them had climbed out of the pool and retreated to the wall near the door to the locker room.

"You need to _stop_," Tina snapped, keeping her voice down so as not to catch the others' attention.

Quinn blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Just _stop_. Kurt isn't here right now, and talking to Zack the way you are is only going to make things worse."

"What are you _talking_ about?"

Tina gritted her teeth for a second. "You keep calling him Kurt. It's not Kurt; it's Zack."

Quinn's eyebrow quirked. "Actually, that is the _same_ boy who's been in school with us for the past four years."

"It's his _body_," Tina insisted, her voice dropping to a hiss. "And even if it _was_ Kurt, it's not your place to preach at him about just snapping out of it, okay? It's our job to make sure he knows he's supported – _that's it._"

Quinn's eyes narrowed at her. "You think I don't support Kurt?"

"Not if you're not willing to back off," Tina replied evenly. "Zack is _four_. He doesn't know how he's supposed to react when you talk to him like a grown-up. You might trigger another switch."

"Tina, in case you haven't noticed, Kurt _is_ a grown-up," Quinn retorted.

"Have you even _seen_ a four-year-old kid before?" Tina asked incredulously, miraculously managing to keep her voice down. "You can't act this much like one unless you _are_ one."

"For God's sake, _Kurt is not four,_" Quinn spat, exasperated.

"It doesn't matter!" Tina cried. "It's not your job to pry into what he's doing, whether or not he chooses it! So just _stop_ it, or you'll have to leave."

Quinn nearly laughed in disbelief. "You'd kick me out of a Glee party?"

"This isn't a Glee party, and no, I wouldn't. But Mr. Hummel would, and so would Ms. Hudson, and Finn, and everyone else."

Quinn pressed her mouth into a thin line for several seconds, then exhaled heavily, planting her hands on her hips. "Fine. I'll treat my eighteen-year-old friend like a toddler just to make him happy."

Tina shook her head, holding out a hand to stop Quinn from brushing by and heading back to the pool. "No, don't do it to make him happy. Do it to protect _yourself_, because if he switches again and it's your fault? You don't know what he might do."

* * *

><p>After being at the pool for an hour, Blaine still felt like he wasn't quite welcome. The other kids hadn't protested when he joined their games, but he couldn't help feeling like Finn and Burt were watching him the entire time, constantly monitoring his every move to see if he did something that might set Kurt off. So far, Blaine had avoided any direct interaction with Kurt, and Kurt hadn't noticed at all since he was too busy having fun with the other kids.<p>

"Dad, can I go off the diving board?" Kurt called, out of breath from wrestling with Puck and Finn in the shallow end, much to the bemusement of their audience.

Burt frowned for a second in consideration. "Uh, yeah, okay. So long as Finn's there with you," he said.

"Yes!" Kurt cried, already climbing up the ladder and out of the pool. Finn kicked off the wall, swimming towards the deep end.

"Zack, no running!" Burt shouted, but it was too late.

Kurt's feet slipped out from under him and his body crashed onto the tiled floor close to the edge of the pool, skidding for an inch or two. All the girls and a few of the guys collectively gasped, already moving towards where Kurt had landed. Before he even knew what had happened, Blaine had hoisted himself out of the pool and crouched down next to Kurt, who was clutching his head and repeating, "Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow."

"Ku— Zack?" Blaine prodded, helping Kurt sit up. Burt was already there, kneeling on the floor next to them. "Are you all right?"

"My head hurts," Kurt stated, his features scrunched up as he rubbed at the spot on the back of his skull that had smacked against the floor. He turned his head to the side to allow Blaine to look at it.

Finn finally made it to the edge of the pool, clambering out and dropping to his knees next to Blaine. "Is he okay?" he asked, already checking over Kurt's limbs for visible injuries.

"I think so," Blaine said. "Just hit his head a little."

"Do I have to go to the doctor?" Kurt asked.

Burt patted his leg. "Nah, you're okay. Come on." Kurt grabbed one of Burt's hands and one of Blaine's and let them pull him onto his feet. "Okay, now let's _walk_ to the diving board," said Burt.

Kurt giggled and ducked his head.

"Are _you_ all right?" Rachel appeared by Blaine's elbow as Kurt followed his dad to the diving board. Finn dove back into the water and swam in the same direction, ready to make sure Kurt wouldn't sink after jumping in.

Blaine watched as Kurt climbed up the steps to the board, Burt coaching him all the way. "He doesn't recognize me," he said.

Rachel sighed, reaching down to link her fingers with Blaine's. "Yeah, I know."

Kurt leaped off the edge of the board, plunging straight into the water, and Finn was there to pull him back up.

* * *

><p>Zack didn't leave until later that night, during dinner at home. They had all dried off from the pool and were sitting at the table eating meatloaf, listening to Kurt animatedly chatter about the awesome jumps he'd done from the diving board. Mid-sentence, Kurt's fork dropped from his hand and clattered loudly against his plate as his eyelids fluttered for a moment, and Zack was gone.<p>

"Kurt?" said Carole hopefully.

Kurt blinked, dazed but aware of his surroundings. "How long was I out?"

"Five hours, give or take," Burt answered, relieved to hear his son talking.

Finn watched as Kurt's face contorted for a split second. "Wait, did… did we have to cancel the party?"

"Nope," said Burt, taking another bite of food. "Zack showed up, but everyone had a blast. It was a good day."

Kurt frowned. "A good day without me, apparently."

Burt paused. "You know that's not what I meant, Kurt."

Finn held his tongue as Kurt swallowed, exhaled slowly, then calmly stood up from the table.

"I'm not very hungry," he said, striding out of the room.

Burt immediately moved to go after him, but Finn stopped him. "Wait, I'll talk to him," he said, tossing his napkin next to his plate and following his stepbrother down the hall and upstairs.

He found Kurt in his bedroom, lying on his side on top of the covers and facing away from the door. "You still here, dude?"

"Don't call me dude," Kurt replied, and probably would have sounded snappish if Kurt had had the energy.

"Yep, still here," Finn answered himself, coming over to sit on the edge of the bed by Kurt's feet.

Kurt's gaze didn't waver from darkened evening sky outside the window. "Finn, I appreciate the effort, but I'm really not in the mood for a pep talk right now."

"I wasn't planning on giving you one."

Kurt finally glanced back at him, but it was brief.

"Why are you so upset?" Finn asked, genuinely confused. "The party went totally smooth. Nothing bad happened."

Kurt didn't say anything.

After a long, uncomfortable silence, Finn spoke up again. "Okay, the whole silent treatment thing is kinda creeping me out, so can you just talk to me? Please?"

"They all _saw_ me, Finn. All of them."

The admission was so quiet that Finn wasn't sure he'd heard it, but once he'd actually absorbed the information and realized what it meant, his stomach twisted. "Crap, Kurt, I didn't— I didn't even think about that."

"It's fine."

"No, it's— _crap_. I'm such an idiot."

Finn mentally kicked himself, hard, for not realizing just how much it would mean to Kurt if everyone in their social circle saw even one of the alters. He'd spent too much energy and brainpower worrying over how the others would react to Kurt and hadn't even stopped to think about how that might've gone the other way around.

He sighed, then abruptly stood up.

"Where are you going?" asked Kurt wearily.

"I'll be right back."

Finn strode out of the room and down the hall to his own bedroom, snatched the small-ish package wrapped in recycled Christmas paper off of his desk, and quickly returned to Kurt's room. Plopping back down on the bed, he held the package out.

"…What is this," said Kurt, eyeing it in confusion.

"It's from everyone in the club," Finn replied. "Something to take with you to the hospital, or wherever else you want to bring it. Everyone else wanted to give it to you at the pool today, but since Zack was there I told them I'd give it to you tomorrow. I figured you could use it now, though."

Kurt sat up, still frowning, and hesitantly took the package out of Finn's hands.

"It was Puck's idea, so if you hate it you can blame him," Finn added hastily.

"Good to know."

Kurt pulled at the wrapping paper, ripping it away to reveal plain white cloth. "You got me a shirt?" he said, grabbing the shirt by the shoulder seams and shaking it out. "If it says 'I heart New York' I swear I will—"

He froze, staring at the front of the shirt.

Finn swallowed, unsure of how Kurt might react to it.

Kurt's mouth opened and closed soundlessly for a moment before he was able to utter, "Is this…?"

Finn nodded. "Yeah, to replace your _Likes Boys_ t-shirt. I mean, we all know you're not exactly insecure about that. Not anymore, anyways."

Kurt's eyes were brimming, but Finn couldn't tell if that was good or bad.

"If you hate it, that's totally okay…" he said nervously.

Kurt was still _staring_ at the front of the shirt, which was making Finn more and more anxious by the second.

"Are you—"

Finn's question was cut off as Kurt suddenly turned and threw his arms around him, hugging him tighter than he had in a long time. "Thank you," Kurt choked out, his voice thick. Finn could feel Kurt's ribs shuddering as he returned the embrace.

"You're going to win this, Kurt," Finn said. "I know it."

Kurt sniffed and drew out of the hug, his face wet and blotchy from crying. "You said this was _Puck's_ idea?" he hiccoughed.

Finn grinned. "Yeah. Who would've thought, right?"

Kurt shook his head, smiling shakily and fingering the hem of the shirt in his lap. "Give Puck a hug for me at school on Monday," he said.

"I'm not sure he really does hugs, but I'll pass on a fist bump if you want."

Kurt let out a laugh, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "Deal."

* * *

><p>After Finn had gone back down to dinner, Kurt held up the shirt again, fighting a fresh stream of tears as he stared at its front. His heart knocking against his ribcage, he stood up and pulled off the shirt he was already wearing, taking care not to look down at the constellation of burns on his torso.<p>

His breath speeding up and his pulse roaring in his ears, he pulled the new shirt over his head. Zack had destroyed his mirror, so Kurt looked at his reflection in the window.

This was who he was.

A skinny-ish boy/man who looked like he'd been tied to the back of a truck and dragged in every direction possible, standing in front of his own transparent reflection in a darkened glass windowpane, with a solid black _8_ emblazoned on his chest.

This was who he was.

* * *

><p>Finn was dreaming that he and Rachel were in the park together at night, lying back and watching the stars. It was an awfully sappy dream for an eighteen-year-old guy, but he figured Rachel was rubbing off on him after three years of off-and-on dating. Her tiny frame was curled up against his side with her head resting in the crook of his shoulder, his fingers running absentmindedly through the ends of her hair.<p>

They weren't doing anything, and – again, surprisingly for an eighteen-year-old guy – he was fine with that. But after a little while Dream-Rachel seemed to change her mind and decide she wanted to go a little further, pressing a kiss to his mouth and not-so-subtly draping a leg over his waist.

He smiled against her lips – this was his favorite kind of dream. Where he and Rachel could go all the way, but he wouldn't have to feel guilty about dreaming it because it was still somehow romantic.

Okay, she was rubbing off on him a lot more than he thought.

By this point, Dream-Rachel had climbed over to straddle him, and his heart rate was beginning to pick up. Her hand went between his legs, over his jeans, and the friction caused a pleasant twinge.

"Never thought we'd be doing this outside," he grinned when she pulled away for a moment to take off her shirt.

She smiled back. "Well, I'm always open to new experiences," she said, and something _clicked_ in Finn's head. Her voice was… not right, somehow. The hairs on his arms prickled.

She leaned in for another heated kiss, but he stopped her. "Wait, Rachel—"

Her smile stretched, and Finn suddenly felt pure _terror_ tug at his stomach, though he couldn't exactly figure out where it was coming from.

"Not Rachel," she said, her voice still distorted. Her eyes glinted and her hand returned to his nether region. "Come on, hot stuff. I know you want to fuck."

Finn's eyes opened wide. Rachel Berry did _not_ talk like that, and now he was definitely not in the mood for what she was trying to accomplish. Her fingers were pulling at his jeans, unbuckling the belt and jerking the zipper.

"Rachel, _stop!_"

Before he could push her off, her hands slammed into his chest and pinned him to the ground. His head hit the hard dirt and he blinked, suddenly staring at his bedroom ceiling, fully awake.

The relief only lasted for a split second. He felt the waistband of his boxers being stretched, and warm skin that did _not_ belong to him was rubbing against him between his legs. Raising his head, his reflexes took over and he _yelled_, his legs thrashing. The movement threw him roughly off of the bed and he scrabbled back to his feet, breathing hard.

"_What the hell are you doing?!_" Finn cried, every hair on his body standing on end. He was nauseous and dizzy, pressed back against the wall, and he wanted nothing more than to be sick right then and there. Every nerve cell felt charged with static.

Kurt's lip curled, and he rubbed his chest. "You kicked me, asshole," he said, stepping nimbly off the bed.

"_What are you doing?!_"

"I _was_ about to get off," Kurt replied, as if it should have been obvious. "But you put a damper on the mood, so fuck you." He turned and left, slamming the door behind him. A moment later, Finn heard Kurt's bedroom door slam as well.

Finn suddenly felt a desperate need to shed his entire skin, just to be rid of this _disgusting_ feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he rushed down the hall to the bathroom to vomit into the toilet. After rinsing out his mouth, he went back to his room and made sure to lock the door.


	55. Tie Me To A Post And Block My Ears

_Tie Me To A Post And Block My Ears  
><em>

"It was Truman."

"You're sure?" Burt pressed, his heart racing. Out of all the bad days, the horrible things that Kurt had done when the alters were in control, the screaming and hitting and breaking… this had to be the worst.

Finn nodded, leaning back against the kitchen island with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the floor. Carole immediately stood up from her seat at the table and wrapped Finn in a tight hug. Burt was still at the table, too stunned to really do anything useful. He was suddenly struck by a tidal wave of _relief_ that Kurt was going to the hospital today. He was the first one to admit that he didn't want Kurt to be away from home, but if Truman was going to do this kind of thing, then he needed to be kept away from the family and away from Finn until things settled down.

Finn might be Kurt's rock, so to speak, but he was still just a _kid._

"Do you still want to come with us to drop Kurt off?" Carole asked, her hands on her son's shoulders.

Finn swallowed and shook his head wordlessly.

"You want me to stay here with you?"

"Uh, no, I think… That's fine," Finn said, tugging his fingers through his hair. "I'll be okay."

At that moment, Finn suddenly stiffened as Kurt strode into the room, casually heading for the refrigerator and barely glancing at Finn or their parents. "Jesus, you all look like you need to take a twelve-pound shit," he remarked, leaning down to peer into the fridge.

"Truman," Burt said, standing up and trying to ignore how his stomach was twisting and turning in his gut.

"Where the fuck is the smoothie I left in here?" Kurt muttered.

"Truman," Burt repeated, this time forcefully. Kurt turned to look at him. "Tell us what happened last night."

"Why do you need him to tell you?" Finn cried. "_I_ already told you!"

Kurt's eyes rolled and he leaned back against the counter. "Are you _seriously_ still on that? It's just _sex_, you fucking prude. Not that big a deal."

"You do realize you're my _brother_, right?" Carole was clutching at Finn's arm, trying to keep him calm, but it wasn't working very well.

Burt's heart gave a painful lurch as Kurt's face contorted, morphing from mere annoyance into pure rage. "First off, _I'm _not your brother and you know that already," he snapped. "Second, you and Kurt aren't fucking related, so why the _fuck_ do you care?"

"_Because you freaking tried to RAPE me last night!_" Finn yelled, making Burt and Carole flinch.

Kurt rolled his eyes again. "Please. It's not rape if we _both_ got hard."

Burt had to clench his fists and grit his teeth to keep from throwing up then and there, and Carole began to cry, still grasping Finn's arm.

"_I WAS ASLEEP!_" Finn shouted, too angry to be embarrassed by what Kurt had said.

"So fucking _what?_" Kurt spat back, his voice rising. "You _wanted_ it! You _wanted _my dick up your ass!"

"TRUMAN!" Burt bellowed, beginning to panic. "That's _enough!_"

Finn wasn't finished. "Stop talking like that!" he demanded, almost pleading. "I'm _sick_ of it! If this is what happened to you, Kurt, I am _really _sorry, because it's freaking terrifying!" His words cracked, but he kept going, his voice quickly continuing to rise. "But_ please_, just stop acting like all these different people when you _know_ they _DON'T EXIST!_"

No one said a word.

Burt was at a complete loss for what to do. Things with Kurt had never reached this level of instability before, and now Burt had to manage not only Kurt and his alters, but Finn and Carole as well.

Kurt was watching Finn with an expression that made Burt's stomach churn, his eyes narrowed but his body unmoving, and Burt honestly didn't have any idea how Truman was going to react.

And then Kurt reached behind him and whipped a kitchen knife off the rack.

Without thinking at all, Burt lurched forward and grabbed Kurt just as he was heading straight for Finn. Carole shrieked and jumped in front of Finn, pushing him back, her eyes wide as Kurt tried to push Burt off him. Before Kurt could reach around and sink the blade into his father's shoulder, Burt snatched his wrist and wrenched it as hard as he could, making Kurt let out a snarl and drop the knife. It clattered to the floor and Burt kicked it out of reach.

"Get the fuck off me, asshole!" Kurt growled.

Finn shook his head, pushing past his mother and throwing up his hands. "I'm done," he said. "Let me know when he starts acting like Kurt again."

"_I'M NOT KURT, YOU FUCKER_," Kurt screamed after him, but Finn was already gone. Carole rushed after him. "_FUCK YOU!_"

Burt didn't release Kurt until he'd heard Finn and Carole go upstairs. Kurt let out a wordless growl, kicking over a stool in his frustration.

"You really telling me that you don't feel bad about any of this?" Burt demanded.

Kurt laughed hollowly. "God, you people make everything such a _big fucking deal._"

Burt clenched his jaw. "Truman, somewhere way, _way_ below our feet, there's a special place in Hell waiting for you, and that's exactly where you're going once Kurt finally kicks you out."

The promise was met with only a level, unperturbed expression. "Well, that's not much of an incentive for me to leave, then, is it?" Kurt's mouth snapped back into a cold grin for a split second, then he turned and walked away.

* * *

><p>Carole sat on the edge of Finn's bed while he paced the floor, raking a hand through his hair. "I'm so sorry, Finn," she said, her hands braced on her knees.<p>

He glanced at her for a second in confusion. "Why? You didn't do anything; Kurt did."

"Finn… you know Kurt would never even _think _of doing what Truman did," Carole said gently.

"Yeah, how?" Finn snapped, his expression hard. "How do we know that? Kurt used to be in love with me, Mom. That's how this whole family got started in the first place."

Carole pressed her lips together, trying to ignore how obvious it was that Finn was blaming not just Kurt, but her as well.

"Truman is not Kurt," she insisted.

"Yes, he _is_," Finn fired back. "I'm tired of everyone always saying 'don't worry, it's not him' when he does crap like this! It_ is _him!"

"Finn, you know better than most people that Kurt can't control the alters," Carole reminded him, feeling horrible.

"I know he can't control them," Finn replied, his hands jerking in exasperation. "But I wish everyone would stop talking about them like they're separate people."

Carole frowned. "They_ are_ sep—"

"No, they_ aren't!_" Finn cried. "I know he can't control them and I know he doesn't remember the crap the alters do. But they're still _him!_"

"Finn—" Carole started, not even sure what she was protesting. She just wanted Finn to calm down before he snapped.

"Then why are they there?" he argued, responding to Carole's unspoken contradiction. "If they're not him, then where the hell did they come from?"

"Well, I don't know about the others, but I'm from Pittsburgh."

Finn's gaze snapped towards the door. Kurt was leaning casually against the doorframe, watching Finn's rant. Carole jumped when she saw him, still on edge.

Finn lurched toward him, no longer afraid now that Kurt wasn't armed with a knife. "Get out of my room," he spat. "Get out."

Kurt quirked an eyebrow, clearly not taking Finn seriously. "Why? So you can have space to cry and heal from your little trauma? Get the fuck over it."

"GET _OUT!_" Finn screamed, looming over Kurt. Carole stood up, unsure of how Kurt would react if she tried to intervene. Neither Kurt nor Finn seemed to notice her, though, and Kurt only regarded Finn with an even stare that was almost threatening, his lip slightly curled. "_GET OUT!_" Finn screamed again.

Then, when Kurt barely batted an eye and still didn't move away from the door, Finn grabbed him by the shoulders, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he tried to push Kurt back into the hallway. "_GET THE HELL OUT OF MY ROOM!_" Carole flinched.

"F-Finn?"

Carole felt her heart drop straight through the bottom of her stomach. Kurt was rigid, his arms held close to his chest as he blinked, staring at Finn with wide eyes. He was _terrified_.

Finn let go of him, turning around and pulling at his hair again. Carole approached her stepson, who was standing frozen to the spot with an expression in a horrible mix of fear, hurt, and _confusion_. "Kurt, honey…" she started, entirely failing to keep her voice steady. "Could you give us a few minutes, please?"

Kurt was still watching Finn. He swallowed, his eyes threatening to spill over. "Okay," he said, casting a final lost look at Finn before slowly walking down the hall to the stairs, no doubt in search of his father.

Carole stayed with Finn, and when the sound of Kurt (not the alters) sobbing downstairs reached them, she shut the door.


	56. Off To See The Wizard

_Off To See The Wizard  
><em>

Finn remained in his room for the next few hours, still feeling sick to his stomach. He was nauseous enough to be sure that if he saw Kurt, he'd throw up on the spot. Logically, Finn understood that none of this was really Kurt's fault, but it was hard not to blame him when it had been Kurt's hands and Kurt's mouth and Kurt's _face_.

But who really knew?

The more Finn thought about it, the more his head hurt. He wasn't much of a deep thinker, but when it came to Kurt he usually ended up stretching his ability of understanding. By now it had slowly dawned on the Hudson-Hummels that whatever had happened to Kurt had been of… _that_ nature, and Finn guessed it was possible that one of the ways Kurt's brain figured out how to deal with it was to believe that it was _okay_ to do that, but at the moment that was just a little much for Finn to process, and he put it out of his mind.

Outside of his room, he could hear his mom and Burt getting ready to leave for Athens, double checking and making sure Kurt had all the necessities, but he didn't know where Kurt was. Judging by how violently he'd been crying earlier (after he'd found out what Truman had done, no doubt), he'd probably switched to Tyler and was now curled up with Raleigh on the couch, Finn thought bitterly.

He was just _sick_ of it.

Around noon, there was a soft knock on his door. "Finn?" Kurt's voice was barely audible through the wood. "Finn, please open the door."

Finn stayed right where he was, lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling.

"Finn, _please_—" Kurt's breath hitched audibly, and Finn kept his eyes trained on a spot on one of the rafters above his head. "I want— I _need_ to… I'm so sorry, Finn, you have to believe me. Please. I'm so _sorry_."

Rolling over, Finn purposefully turned away from the door, trying not to listen. His stomach was churning.

"Please— Can you open the door?" Kurt's voice cracked, and he knocked again. "Finn?"

Finn let out a long breath. "I'll see you in a couple weeks," he said, just loud enough for Kurt to hear him.

In truth, Finn didn't know when he would next see Kurt. He didn't know if he'd be ready to visit the hospital next week or next month or if he wouldn't be ready to face Kurt again until he was all better and not turning into different people. He couldn't help feeling like maybe that might be a good thing.

There was a long silence from the other side of the door.

Eventually, Burt's voice called Kurt downstairs, saying they were ready to go. There was a shuffling sound as Kurt began to move down the hall, but then stopped and turned back.

"Just…" Kurt trailed off for a moment, his voice shaking. "Just please don't hate me for too long, okay?"

Then he was gone.

* * *

><p>Burt sat in the back seat of Carole's sedan with Kurt as the car pulled out of their driveway. Kurt was silent, watching as they turned a corner and the house vanished from view. Burt squeezed Kurt's hand and didn't say anything when Kurt seemed to not even notice the touch.<p>

That morning had been undoubtedly one of the worst times any of them had experienced in regards to Kurt's illness. For Kurt especially, though, so Burt couldn't really say he was that surprised when Kurt began to slouch in his seat before they'd even passed the Lima city limits, propping his knees up against the back of the passenger seat and glaring out the window with a familiarly half-bored and half-irritated expression.

"Hey, Robbie," Burt sighed, recognizing the posture instantly. He let go of Kurt's hand.

"Not really in the mood to talk, Mr. Bearenstein," Kurt replied dryly without looking away from the window. Carole glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

"Is Kurt okay?" Burt pressed.

Kurt head twisted to give Burt a scathing, are-you-kidding-me scowl. "What do you think?"

"Is he _going_ to be okay, then?"

Kurt shrugged and looked back out the window. "That's not up to me."

Burt blinked, frowning in confusion. "Who's it up to, then?"

Kurt didn't speak for the rest of the three-hour drive.

* * *

><p>The ward the hospital had placed Kurt in consisted of six rooms (each with two beds separated by a curtain), a TV and computer room that the doctors had explained was available to patients that were actively working to make progress, and a sizable common area that was actually quite welcoming and comfortably arranged. There was also a "quiet room," which was located at the side of the common area opposite to the bedrooms and had no windows and a rather solid-looking door. Burt asked what the room was used for, and the orderly giving them the quick tour replied with, "That's where he can go if he feels like he really needs to be alone in order to calm himself down. It's basically a voluntary solitary confinement."<p>

Burt swallowed. "Where's the room for involuntary confinement?"

"Down the hall, outside the ward."

Kurt, who was still under the control of Robbie, barely batted an eye and regarded the entire setting with mild distaste.

The room that Kurt was given was painted a soft glowing orange and a window was set into the back wall, the pane frosted so as to allow sunlight in without giving a view of the outside (the orderly said it was to keep visual triggers to a minimum). Burt hefted Kurt's small-ish suitcase onto the foot of his assigned bed, and the orderly pawed through it, withdrawing only Kurt's iPod.

"He needs that with him," Burt protested immediately. "Music helps him calm down sometimes."

The orderly shook his head apologetically. "Sorry, but he's not allowed cords or wires of any kind. If he's making a visible effort towards integration, then he'll be allowed to use the iPod under supervision, out in the common area. Until then, we have to keep it at the nurse's station."

"Good thing you didn't pack shoelaces," Kurt remarked, surveying the room as if he was subtly looking for an escape route. Burt wondered if Kurt could hear or see anything going on, or if Robbie was blocking all of that.

Finally, a doctor in his fifties knocked on the doorframe and came into the room, wearing a hospital ID card on a strap around his neck and carrying a red file in his hand. His hair was grey but he'd obviously been ginger-haired in the past, and he had a stomach that bulged slightly over his belt. He wasn't wearing a white coat, which for some reason Burt was grateful for.

"Hi, I'm Ted McManus," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm one of the residential doctors for this ward."

Burt shook his hand. "Hi."

Dr. McManus glanced over the file. "I have to say, this is sort of an unusual case," he admitted, glancing toward where Kurt was leaning back against the wall by the window with his arms crossed, glowering. "Can I ask why you didn't apply for an inpatient setting at a facility that specializes in DID?"

"We wanted Kurt close to home," Burt replied. "A three hour drive was about as far as we were willing to compromise."

"I see." McManus closed the file and turned his full attention to Kurt. "So, Kurt, it looks like you'll—"

"It's Robbie," Kurt snapped.

"Oh, I'm sorry," McManus said, appearing unfazed. "Where's Kurt now? Can I speak to him?"

"No."

McManus nodded, accepting the blunt answer. "We'll work on that later, then." He stuck the file under his arm as he talked. "Okay, so, we follow a fairly regular schedule here every day for the patients. We're not the Army, obviously, but we do like to keep the patients from sitting around all day with nothing to do. They can choose whether or not to partake in the activities, though, apart from individual and group therapy. If you'd like, I can have Paul print out a copy of the schedule for you at the nurses' station."

"That'd be great," Burt said.

"You have any other questions?"

Burt held his breath for a second, then shook his head. "Uh, no, I think that's it."

McManus pulled a business card out of his pocket and scribbled something across the back of it, then handed it to Carole. "That's my personal contact information, so feel free to call me any time, day or night, to check up on Kurt's progress. I also wrote down the direct number to the phone that the patients use here, so you can use that number to call Kurt, anywhere between eight in the morning and seven at night."

Burt swallowed and nodded, beginning to feel something akin to panic clawing at his intestines. Carole picked up on this, and reached down to clasp his hand.

"Okay, I think we're good," said McManus. "You can have a few minutes before you leave, and Robbie, I guess I'll see you again pretty soon, if you're around."

Kurt only scowled at the doctor's back as he left the room.

Carole squeezed Burt's hand tightly before he steeled himself and stepped towards Kurt. "I, uh…" he trailed off, searching for the right words.

"We're not doing the whole hugging-goodbye thing," Kurt drawled. "That's where I draw the line."

Burt nodded, the base of his throat working to stretch around a boulder the size of a bowling ball. "Okay."

"Are you leaving or what?"

Burt had to swallow a second time before he was able to mutter a rushed, "I'll see you soon, kiddo."

Carole took his hand again, not even loosening her grip until they reached the car.


	57. Fingers Glued Together

_Fingers Glued Together  
><em>

Monday morning passed in a haze for Finn. He ate breakfast with his mom and sat at lunch with his friends and wasn't avoiding anyone, but he didn't make any effort to fully integrate himself either. The other kids asked him multiple times if Kurt was all right, and he only nodded and shrugged off the questions. Rachel was even more jittery than she normally was, fluttering around him like a moth around a lamp and asking him at least five times an hour if he was all right and if he wanted to talk about Kurt being shipped off to the nuthouse.

He really wasn't in the mood to sit through Glee rehearsal and try to learn the choreography for Regionals, but Rachel managed to get him into the choir room anyway, prattling on about how some rigorous dancing and singing routines would probably take his mind off everything for a little while.

She seemed to have forgotten that they were dedicating the performance at Regionals to Kurt, and therefore it wouldn't take his mind off _anything_.

Finally, halfway through rehearsal when Finn missed the same step for the twentieth time, Mr. Schue pulled him out of the formation and told the rest of the club to take a break. "Come on," Mr. Schue said, patting Finn on the shoulder and leading him into the tiny office annex attached to the choir room. "Have a seat."

Finn sat, knowing exactly what was coming and trying not to snap at his teacher before Mr. Schue was even allowed a chance to speak.

"How are you doing, Finn?" Mr. Schue asked, sinking into the chair behind his desk.

"I'm fine," Finn said, delivering the standard response that he'd already repeated at least thirty times that day.

"I, uh…" Mr. Schue fiddled with a pen, twisting the cap in his fingers. "I heard Kurt was admitted to the hospital this weekend."

Finn nodded. "He left yesterday."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Finn rolled his eyes before he could stop himself.

Mr. Schue coughed. "Sorry. You've probably answered that enough times."

"What do you want to talk about, Mr. Schue?" Finn sighed, just wanting to get this over with so he could go home and play his mindless videogames and not _think_.

"Finn, I don't think it's news to you that it's obvious you're having a hard time coping with all this," Mr. Schue said.

"Isn't it Miss Pillsbury's job to talk to me about this?"

"Well, the last time she tried, you yelled at her and stormed out, so…" Mr. Schue shrugged. "Maybe you should take a few days off school."

Finn clenched his jaw for a moment. "Look, I know I've been kind of pissed the last couple weeks, but there's just been a lot going on at home, and now that stuff's done with so there's no point in keeping me there. There's nothing to do there; sending me home won't solve anything."

Mr. Schue nodded, and Finn was almost surprised that the teacher thought his argument was legitimate. "Okay," he said. "But you do need to focus your energies on your schoolwork and rehearsal. We need you for Regionals. We're already missing one key player, and we can't miss two."

Finn's fingers twitched involuntarily at that.

"So," Mr. Schue continued, oblivious to Finn's irritation. "I'm giving you a special assignment."

Finn blinked. "What?"

"You need to vent, Finn, that's completely understandable. Talking with Miss Pillsbury didn't work, you can't focus on rehearsal, and your other teachers have all said that you've been losing track of your classes."

"What are you talking about?"

Mr. Schue sat back in his chair, still fiddling with his pen. "I want you to do a solo," he said. "Not for the club, just for you. Pick a song that really allows you to let out all the stuff you're bottling up."

Finn stared at him.

Mr. Schue twisted the cap on his pen anxiously, like he was waiting for Finn to do something.

"Wow," Finn said at long last. Mr. Schue's eyebrows snapped together. "You're an _ass_."

"What—?"

Finn stood up and pushed through the door to the choir room, storming straight across the floor and out into the hallway and ignoring the confused glances that the rest of the club members were casting him. The door slammed shut and he headed down the hall toward the parking lot.

"Finn, wait!" came Rachel's voice from behind him.

Gritting his teeth, he stopped in his tracks and turned around, waiting for Rachel to catch up. "Rach, I'm really not in a good spot right now to talk, okay?" he said quickly. He didn't have enough space in his head to be all that concerned about the slightly hurt expression on her face.

"I just wanted to make sure you were—"

Something in the center of Finn's brain _clicked_ like a light switch, and he cut her off with a shout.

"I'm _not okay!_"

Rachel flinched slightly, her arms crossed protectively over her chest as Finn kept going, his mouth running on autopilot.

"But you know what? I don't have a _right_ to talk about it! Because Kurt's the one with all the problems, not me!" Finn's voice was rising, but at the moment he didn't really care. "And _every single time _I try to help him, it comes around and bites me in the ass!" he shouted. "I didn't go through _any_ of the crap that Kurt did, but at least Kurt's got an excuse for when he can't control things! Well, _good for him!_"

Rachel blinked, for once saying nothing as Finn stood there out of breath.

Raking a hand through his hair, Finn shook his head and walked away.

* * *

><p>In the middle of the night, Carole woke to find Burt sitting up in bed, wide awake and staring out the window at the moonlit snow covering their back yard. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she pulled herself up against the headboard next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder and clasping one of his hands in her own.<p>

"Can't sleep?" she said softly.

He didn't look away from the window, but his cheek rested against the crown of her head. "I can't get rid of the feeling like I did something wrong."

"Oh, Burt…" she sighed, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand. "If anything, you've done everything right. I'm so proud of you."

Burt was quiet for several minutes, and Carole could practically hear the gears whirring in his head.

"When Kurt was ten, he… he got into a fight at school with another kid," Burt said eventually. "It wasn't anything major; just kid stuff. I think he stole Kurt's snack or something. But the school called me up and asked me to come down for a talk with the principal and the counselor, and at first I didn't really get it because they just seemed more worried than they should've been. And then… then they told me what Kurt did."

Carole could feel Burt's shoulders tense up and she wasn't really sure she wanted to know the details of what Burt was talking about, but she remained silent.

"The other kid was in the hospital for a week," he said. "He had five broken ribs and a cracked skull."

"Oh my god," Carole whispered. "Kurt did that when he was _ten_?"

"I think… that might've been the first time Craig really showed up, but I…" He shook his head, sniffing. "Kurt had to switch schools after that. I had a real serious talk with him about it, and he… he didn't remember a thing. He kept saying he didn't do it. I thought he was lying so I'd go easy on him, so I doubled the consequences. I should've seen it."

Carole swallowed, squeezing Burt's forearm. "Burt, you didn't know what was going on. That was eight years ago."

"I know."

Sighing and glancing at the tendrils of frost creeping up the windows, Carole snuggled closer to him. "He'll be okay," she said. "And so will you."

"Carole, I'm so sorry I got you and Finn mixed up in all this. I know it's too much."

Carole's head snapped up. "Burt, I swear to God, I'm going to slap you in the face."

"No, listen to me," he said, unfazed. He'd shifted so that he could look her in the eye. "I love Kurt, but he's not in control and I knew that when I asked you to move in with us. I put you and Finn in harm's way, and I'm _so_ sorry."

"You should have told us about the DID before asking, I'll give you that, but…" Carole argued. "What Kurt did to Finn wasn't anyone's fault, and it definitely wasn't yours."

Burt shook his head, seeming at a loss for the right words to say what he wanted to say. "No, Carole, you… It's happened before."

Carole paused. "Truman's… done that to someone else?" she asked, not entirely sure if she was understanding Burt right.

"I didn't know it was Truman at the time," Burt clarified. "It was six years ago." He drew a shuddering breath like he was trying to let go of something he'd held too tightly for too long. "He… he snuck up behind me in the kitchen, and…"

As Burt trailed off, Carole felt bile rise in her throat. "Oh, Burt…" she whispered. "Kurt doesn't know about this?"

Burt shook his head. "Dr. Goldberg knew, but you saw how upset Kurt was over what Truman did to Finn. How do you think he'd react if he knew he did the same thing to his dad?"

Carole set her jaw. "Burt, you can't keep secrets like that."

"I know, but Kurt… he can't know about that. It'd destroy him."

"I meant from _me_, Burt. At the very _least_, Finn could've had some warning that that might happen," she insisted, sitting up to look him hard in the eye. It was rare that Carole had to be harsh with Burt, but this was absolutely one of those times. "You… Look, I understand that you need to protect Kurt as much as you possibly can. Of course I understand that. But Kurt is _my_ family too, and Finn and I are sharing the weight of this as much as you are. You _cannot_ be trying to protect Kurt from his own family. That's not fair – to us _or_ Kurt."

Burt nodded silently, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Is that the only thing keeping you up?" she asked, her voice softening.

"No, I… It's just that Kurt's never been away from home for this long." He shook his head, a hollow laugh escaping from his throat. "It's funny. The first time Kurt had a sleepover? He was seven, and Linda was fine but I was a mess. She always said Kurt was really independent and could take care of himself, but I—"

Burt froze, the fond, nostalgic smile melting off his face in half a second. His eyes widened in the dark.

Carole frowned. "What is it? What's wrong?"

His hand slowly rose to cover his mouth, and he looked like he was about to vomit.

"Burt, talk to me," Carole pressed.

"I… I know who it is."

Carole felt her heart lurch to a stop. "You—"

Burt's face contorted, as if he were collapsing from the inside out. "I know who it is," he repeated, stammering. "L-Linda had a friend from college, and we… we left Kurt with—"

He choked on his own words, gritting his teeth.

"Oh my God… I _left _him."


	58. Paint By Numbers

_Paint By Numbers_

When Kurt opened his eyes, he was in a bed that did not belong to him. For a moment, he groaned and mentally cursed Truman for going out again (to Scandals or some other equally seedy bar, no doubt). But then he remembered that the last time he'd been awake, he'd been in the car on the way to Athens.

He froze, staring at the orange wall, and tried to absorb as much of his surroundings as he could without moving. There was an irrational fear creeping up his spine that if he moved, they would know he was awake and orderlies would suddenly swoop in and drug him back to sleep.

He shut his eyes and forced himself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He realized his arm was numb from sleeping on it, and the mattress was a little harder than his bed at home, but he still couldn't bring himself to move. At least the sheets weren't thin or scratchy like they'd been at the other (regular) hospital.

This place was meant for people to stay.

He could hear sounds from outside the room. Voices. Several of them. He couldn't quite make out what they were saying, but they didn't sound agitated and their speech was punctuated by an occasional laugh, so Kurt relaxed a little.

Swallowing and trying to flex the fingers on his numb hand, Kurt forced himself to accept the fact that he couldn't just stay where he was forever. He slowly rolled over, the rest of the room coming into view. There was another bed against the opposite wall, closer to the door, and there was a curtain that could be pulled across the room to divide it in half and give some semblance of privacy. A small three-drawer bureau was situated at the foot of each bed and the window was frosted over so that he couldn't see the view outside. Set into the wall close to the window was another door that probably went to a private bathroom.

Drawing a deep breath in an attempt to make the nerves in his fingertips stop crackling, Kurt pushed the covers back and sat up. Looking down for a moment, he saw he was wearing boxer shorts and a Guns N' Roses t-shirt – Robbie's clothes. He ran a hand over his too-short hair and stood up, stretching his stiff legs.

He was probably making a conscious decision not to the think about the fact that he hadn't had a chance to say goodbye to his dad or Finn or Carole, but at the moment he was a little preoccupied with getting his bearings.

It wasn't the first time he'd woken up in a strange place with people he didn't know.

He could handle this.

…Or not.

The door banged open suddenly, making him jump, and a short-ish chubby man a little older than Kurt came in, his shoulders hunched. "I've got to get my coffee," he muttered, making a beeline for the bureau set against the other bed and seeming not to notice Kurt at all. "Get my coffee," he said, pulling open the drawer and yanking out a small coffee tin labeled _SCOTT'S COFFEE DO NOT TOUCH_ before tucking it under his arm and scurrying back out of the room. He left the door wide open.

"Hey, Robbie!" yelled someone from the other room. Kurt could see a bunch of men sitting around a card table. "Put some pants on, asshole, and get out here! We're having a Connect-Four tournament and we need you to come kick Bruce's ass before he gets carried away."

Kurt blinked. The man who had called to Robbie looked to be about his own age, Asian (probably Vietnamese or Cambodian judging by his skin tone), and a baggy black sweatshirt. His eyebrows shot up expectantly when Kurt didn't move.

"O-one second," Kurt stammered, shutting the door again.

He took a deep breath, then another one.

_Relax, they don't look that crazy_, came Truman's voice from the back of Kurt's head, making Kurt tense up momentarily. He'd heard the alters' voices before and it wasn't a new experience, but it wasn't a common one either. _In any case, you're crazier than them so what the fuck have you got to be afraid of?_

_Real smooth, Truman,_ snapped Robbie. _Do I have to kick you in the nads again?_

_I fucking hate boys, _groaned Eleanor.

"Shut up, all of you," Kurt mumbled, pulling open one of the drawers to the bureau at the foot of his own bed.

_Touchy, touchy,_ said Truman.

Good, his clothes were here. Well, Robbie's clothes. And Truman's and Craig's. Kurt sighed. He knew anything from his own personal wardrobe wouldn't have been practical here, but he still wished he could've had something to wear that actually belonged to _him_. Shaking his head, he grabbed a pair of Truman's sweatpants (vaguely remembering that the doctors didn't allow anything with zippers, so jeans were out of the question) and yanked them on over his boxers, then crossed the room and pushed through the door to the bathroom.

The bathroom was small but not tiny, with grey tiles and a shower stall (Kurt briefly noted that the shower door had no lock). After going to the toilet, Kurt washed his hands and glanced at himself in the mirror, trying not to pay too much attention to the circles under his eyes, his still-too-short hair, or how obvious it was that he'd lost weight.

How long had it been since he got here? The other people in the ward were clearly familiar with him, but his hair hadn't grown perceptively longer, so he couldn't have been gone for more than a few days. He let out a heavy breath. That was slightly reassuring.

Slightly.

He pushed back out of the bathroom and went to the bedroom door, pausing before pulling on the handle.

_Go on,_ Truman sneered. _They probably won't bite. Leap of faith and all that shit._

Kurt shook his head, as if it would rattle Truman into being quiet. Gripping the door handle, Kurt pushed it open and stepped out into the common area.

"Jesus, took you long enough," the Asian guy said, waving Kurt over to the table.

Kurt hesitated, glancing around the room and feeling very much like a fish out of water. There were three other men sitting with the Asian guy at the card table, and (Kurt took a moment to count) seven others scattered around the room who actually looked like patients. He saw another one who had to be an orderly sitting quietly in the corner, reading. Standing by a large blue door that had to be the exit out of the ward was the strange chubby man who had burst into Kurt's room to get his coffee, fidgeting nervously like he was waiting for something.

"Still not used to Scott?"

Kurt's attention snapped back to the table. "What?"

The Asian guy quirked an eyebrow. "…Your roommate?" he said, giving Kurt a strange look. "It's fine; he takes a while to get used to."

Kurt had to physically repress a grimace. He didn't want to be roommates with someone who muttered and fidgeted and actually _acted_ crazy.

"You missed breakfast, by the way," the Asian guy continued, dropping a red disc into the Connect-Four board. His opponent, a gruff and scruffy-looking man who had to be pushing forty, quickly followed it with a black disc and then pumped his fist in the air.

"Ha! I told you, I'm the _king!_"

The Asian guy rolled his eyes and moved himself to the only empty chair at the table, gesturing for Kurt to take his seat. "Come on, Robbie, please kick his ass so that we don't have to give him the bragging rights."

Kurt stayed where he was. "I'm not Robbie," he said.

The four men at the table glanced up at him simultaneously in confusion, and suddenly Kurt realized…

_They don't know_.

"Sorry, um…" He shook his head. "I thought—"

One of them, a black man in his twenties, cut him off. "Wait, are you one of those people who's got multiple personalities or some shit?"

Kurt blinked. "…That would be me, yeah."

The Asian guy's eyes widened. "Dude, that is _so_ badass."

* * *

><p>As it turned out, it was Tuesday, which meant that Kurt had only missed two nights and a day. The guys playing Connect-Four filled him in on how Robbie had passed the time (which really wasn't much other than being sullen and making snarky remarks whenever he kicked Bruce's ass at a game), and Kurt was startled by how unfazed they were in regards to the fact that the person they'd been hanging out with wasn't even a person.<p>

"It doesn't bother you?" he asked at one point as Dustin, the Asian guy, reset the Connect-Four board. "My… my DID?"

Dustin only shook his head and laughed. "Dude, you're in a _mental hospital_. We've all got our crazy psycho problems, and now with you here we've finally got someone to beat Bruce's level of crazy."

Kurt glanced at Bruce, the oldest man at the table, who sent a lopsided toothy grin back at him. "I hear voices," he said softly.

"Well," Dustin continued. "No one'll ever beat Scott over there." He nodded towards where Scott was sitting on a couch by himself, muttering while he sipped a cup of coffee that the nurses had brought him (decaf, Dustin had said, since none of them were allowed to have caffeine). "That poor guy doesn't know up from down. Disorganized schizophrenic. But hey, you're the second craziest guy here, and that's nothing to be ashamed of."

It was strange and almost unsettling for Kurt to hear someone talking about his problem like it was a good thing.

"What about you?" Kurt asked. "Why are you here?"

Without hesitation, Dustin pulled down the neck of his hoodie to reveal a horrible scar of twisted skin encircling his neck. Kurt flinched.

"Tried to kill myself five times since the seventh grade," Dustin said, like it was no big deal. "Manic-depressive." He gestured to the black man sitting across from him. "Alex has got the same thing. Bruce is a paranoid schizo, and Robin—" He grabbed the young, mousy guy beside Kurt by the shoulder. "—tried to burn his own house down in a fit of rage."

Alex spoke up then, dropping a disc into the Connect-Four board. "Just so you know, Dustin's on an upward spiral right now, which makes him talk your fucking ear off. He'll shut up as soon as the nurse brings his happy pills."

Dustin rolled his eyes. "Those aren't _happy_ pills, they're just _normal_ pills. They maintain my delicate equilibrium, so fuck off and thank you very much."

Surprisingly, Kurt laughed. It wasn't much more than a light chuckle, but it still startled him in its lack of restraint.

It was nice to feel normal, even if the normal was slightly terrifying.

* * *

><p>Burt was going insane.<p>

He briefly wondered if this was how Kurt felt, to have information in his head, to _know_ it was there, and yet not be able to access it even when he needed to.

Burt paced the kitchen floor with the phone held to his ear, waiting for the ringing on the other end to finally stop. He'd called three times already and was growing more and more agitated by the second.

"_Hi, this is Ted McManus, please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as soon as possible._"

Burt growled in frustration, almost throwing the phone across the room, but calmed himself before the _beep_. "This is Burt Hummel again," he said. "I need to talk to you right now; just… please call me back as soon as you get this." He huffed and dropped the phone next to the sink, bracing his hands against the counter and trying not to let himself turn around and punch the wall.

He _knew_ who it was. And he couldn't do anything.

He was so goddamn _close_.

The phone rang, and Burt jerked around, fumbling to press the talk button. "Hello?"

"_Hi, Mr. Hummel, this is—_"

"Thank God," Burt breathed. "I've been calling you all morning."

"_Yes, I just got your messages. I'm sorry, but I was with a few patients. What can I do for you? Is everything all right?_"

Burt took off his baseball cap, running a hand over his scalp nervously. "I think I might have some information about what happened to Kurt," he rushed. "I know who hurt him."

There's a long pause on the other end. "_Mr. Hummel, at this point, Kurt's still too unstable to handle that kind of potential trigger._"

"No, that's… I still don't know who it is," Burt said. "I mean, I _do_, but—"

"_Mr. Hummel?_" the doctor cut him off. "_Take it easy._"

Burt forced himself to exhale. "When Kurt was four, his mom and I went on a second honeymoon and we left him with a college friend of my wife's while we were gone," he explained, his voice cracking.

"_And you think that this college friend is Kurt's abuser?_"

"He's the only person it could be," Burt said. "Kurt was with him for almost two weeks. He could've… He could've done anything."

"_Okay,_" Dr. McManus said slowly. "_I'm still a little unclear on what you're asking me to do._"

"I can't remember the guy's name! I'm hoping that Kurt… that he might remember some detail that could help me find him."

Burt was one hundred percent certain that the Franklin guy Kurt had talked about was, in fact, Linda's old college friend, but inexplicably the name Franklin just… didn't ring true. It was the wrong name; it had to be something else.

"_Doesn't your wife remember his name?_"

Burt sighed. "No, Linda passed."

"_Oh, gosh, right, the… the car accident. I'm sorry. Kurt's a new patient and I don't have his file with me at the moment, otherwise—_"

"It's fine," Burt cut him off. He honestly couldn't care less about condolences at this point. "Is there any way you can talk to Kurt or the alters and try to find out the guy's name?"

Dr. McManus exhaled heavily on the other end, hesitant. "_I… I could, yeah. But like I said, Kurt's still very unstable and it might be unwise to try to dig that up so soon after he got here._"

"What do you mean?"

"_Having those memories pulled to the surface is traumatizing, Mr. Hummel. There's no way of telling how he might react._"

"But you have ways of handling that if you need to," Burt protested. "Kurt's doctors always said that if Kurt's going to get better then he needs to know exactly what happened to him. Why the hell are you saying he shouldn't?"

"_It's not that simple. Of course he needs to face the experiences that made him split – that has to happen no matter what. But that sort of thing can't be forced too quickly, or else it's extremely dangerous for his brain. If you push it too much too fast, he might act out in ways that can't be anticipated or prepared for._"

Burt took a deep breath, running a hand over his face. "We need to know who this guy is," he insisted.

Silence, and then a sigh. "_I won't promise anything,_" Dr. McManus said. "_I'll try to talk to him within the next couple days. But if he shows any signs of being unable to handle it, then you need to understand that this is on _his_ terms, not ours._"

Burt nodded, his heart thudding at a probably dangerous rate. But potential heart attacks were the last thing on his mind.

"Ask him about Franklin."


	59. Baby, It's Cold Outside

_Baby, It's Cold Outside_

Sweat dripped from Blaine's forehead and down his back as his sneakers hit the pavement of the McKinley track. The freezing air burned his lungs but he was glad that Coach Sylvester insisted on keeping the track and field cleared of snow (she'd said it was to build up the Cheerios' endurance by having them practice in _all_ weather, but Blaine was pretty sure she just got some sort of sadistic kick out of giving kids hypothermia).

As for why Blaine was exercising in the winter chill in nothing but shorts and a tank top, he wasn't entirely sure. It did feel good, though, to be putting so much energy into something that was fairly mindless. He let the music from his iPod fill his ears and clog his neural pathways, timed his breathing to the beat of his shoes, and just _ran_.

Finally, as his twelfth lap came to a close, he slowed to a walk, his calves burning and his breath fogging in front of his nose. He pulled out his earbuds and glanced up at the darkening grey clouds covering the sky. It would probably snow later. Out of breath, he went and collected his red hoodie from where he'd tossed it over the fence and shrugged it over his exposed shoulders. The running had kept him warm up until then, but it was below freezing and he could already feel his body temperature dropping. He headed towards the locker room, where a shower and a drink of water (he'd left the bottle inside so it wouldn't freeze) was waiting for him, but stopped when he spotted a hunched figure sitting atop the bleachers. He hesitated before climbing up the rows of benches.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked when Finn looked up.

Finn shrugged. "Clearing my head, I guess." His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his puffy vest and his legs were pulled in conserve heat. "How far did you run?"

"Three miles."

"Nice."

Blaine paused, then sank onto the bench just below Finn. "Have you heard anything from the hospital?"

Finn shook his head. "It's only been a couple of days, though," he said. There was a certain tightness to his voice that Blaine couldn't quite place.

"Finn, I'm really sorry I've been such an ass about all this," Blaine said. "I reacted in all the wrong ways and I'm pretty sure that just made everything worse."

Finn propped his legs up on Blaine's bench. "It's not really your fault," he assured Blaine. "The first time I found out, I couldn't look Kurt in the eye for, like, a month. I don't think there's any right way to react to it."

Blaine shivered as a light breeze rippled over the bleachers. "What happened?" he asked. "After Karofsky kissed him, I mean."

Finn shifted uncomfortably where he sat. "Look, man, I really can't talk about this stuff with you, okay? Not without Kurt here. I already made that mistake once."

Blaine nodded with a swallow. "Okay. Sorry."

"For what it's worth, though?" Finn continued, making Blaine look up. "I know you just want to help out, and personally I'd rather that you could. But with Kurt in the headspace he's in now it's just not a good idea."

Another nod. "I understand."

"I'm just trying to look out for him."

"I get it."

Finn rubbed his hands together, blowing into his fists in an attempt to warm them up. "Are you going back to Dalton?" he asked after a long, strained silence.

Blaine blinked in surprise. "I… wasn't planning on it. Why?"

Finn studied the clouds overhead. "I just figured with Kurt gone there's nothing else keeping you here."

In all honesty, the idea of going back to his old school hadn't even occurred to Blaine. "I don't know…" he said slowly. After all, there were really only three and a half months until school was finished, so there wouldn't be much point to a transfer now. "Maybe in the fall."

Finn fell quiet again, and Blaine's teeth began to chatter. The wind was beginning to pick up and the clouds were quickly growing darker.

"Looks like a blizzard," Finn observed, watching the sky like he was worried it would come crashing down.

"We should probably go."

Neither of them moved for a long time. When Finn finally spoke again, Blaine's skin was covered in goosebumps and his legs were blotchy from being exposed to the cold.

"Tell you what," Finn said. "Once all this stuff with Kurt starts to calm down, I'll talk to him and see if you can go visit him in the hospital."

Blaine pressed his lips together for a moment. "Are you sure he'd be okay with that?"

"No." Finn shrugged. "Won't know 'til you ask, though, right?"

"Fair enough, I guess," Blaine acquiesced. "Thanks."

Finn nodded then stood up, keeping his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets as the wind tugged at his coat. "Come on. We should go home before it really starts to snow."

* * *

><p>A full-blown blizzard was howling outside as the hands of the clock on the wall of Blaine's bedroom spun around and passed midnight. The windows rattled and the house creaked loudly, making the darkness in his room seem all the more pressing. The power had gone out an hour ago and Blaine's laptop was running solely on battery, its screen the only light illuminating the room. Blaine was sitting up in his bed with his back propped against the headboard and his computer on his lap, forsaking sleep and slowly working his way through his video library.<p>

Why he insisted on torturing himself by watching old Warbler performances with Kurt, he'd never know.

Clicking on what was probably the twentieth or so recording, he watched himself onscreen, standing in the middle of the Warblers with his arm around Jeff, performing the opening lines of _Ya Got Trouble_ in a joking imitation of Harold Hill.

"_Friend, either you're closing your eyes to a situation you do not wish to acknowledge, or you are not aware of the caliber of disaster…_"

Ignoring his own singing, Blaine searched the rest of the Warblers and found Kurt, who was standing with his back to the camera and sandwiched between David and Thad. For the first two minutes of the song, there was nothing out of place and Kurt joined in at all the right cues.

"_Ohh, we've got trouble! Right here in River City!_"

Then, Blaine's heart lurched as he noticed a shift in Kurt's posture. It was subtle, only alarming if the person looking at it had an inkling as to why Kurt's shoulders had suddenly slumped forward. It became more obvious as he stopped dancing and singing, instead backing away from the circle of Warblers surrounding Blaine. Neither Thad nor David noticed.

"_Oh-ho, we've got trouble! We're in terrible, terrible trouble!_"

Blaine was so engrossed in watching Kurt's movements that he didn't notice Trent also leave the circle until he appeared just beside Kurt, wrapping his hand around Kurt's upper arm. Trent said something quietly to Kurt that Blaine couldn't make out, glancing at Blaine's onscreen self before tugging gently on Kurt's arm and leading him out of sight of the camera.

Blaine stared at his computer in confusion as the crescendo of the song came to a close and the video ended. How the hell had _Trent_ known? Trent was a nice guy, sure, but he and Kurt hadn't been that close. Had they?

God, he'd been so _ignorant_.

Blaine supposed it wasn't really any wonder Kurt had dumped him.

The door to his bedroom creaked open, and Blaine quickly shut his laptop as his mother leaned in. "You're still up," she said.

"Uh, yeah." He shrugged as the windows rattled against the blizzard outside. "Storm's keeping me up, I guess."

"What were you looking at?"

"N-nothing," Blaine stammered, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

His mother crossed her arms, and she was probably giving him a look but it was too dark to tell for sure. "Honey, I could hear the music. Was it old rehearsal videos?"

"Yeah." Well, that _was_ true. She didn't need to know that he hadn't been watching the actual performance.

His mother's slippers shuffled against the floor as she came over and sat on the edge of his bed. "Blaine, what's going on?" she asked. "Please just tell me. I know you're worried about Dad being pulled into it, but he'd never do anything so drastic as kick you out. He loves you just as much as I do."

Blaine swallowed, knowing exactly what she was referring to. He'd told her first that he was gay in the eighth grade and he'd been so petrified that his father would kick him to the curb that Mr. Anderson hadn't found out until four months later. His father had been anything but supportive of the "choice," as he put it, but fortunately he hadn't been repulsed enough to make Blaine leave.

"I know he won't kick me out," Blaine said softly. "But he always manages to make me feel like crap anyways. Cooper does too, but at least if some stranger calls me a fag I know Cooper has my back. You know how many times that's happened and Dad hasn't said a thing?"

"Blaine," she replied, half gentle and half stern. "I'm pretty sure that this has got nothing to do with… that. You've only been acting like this for the past couple of months." She reached over and squeezed his knee as the wind outside whistled against the walls of the house. "What's going on, Bumble?"

Blaine was silent, his fingers curled tightly around the edge of his laptop as the house creaked and groaned. He shivered even though it wasn't cold in the room.

His mother only sat quietly, waiting for him to speak. And he wanted to. He did. But years of adapting to his family's warped system of "be honest and you'll feel better for about five minutes until it comes back to bite you in the ass" had trained his brain to instinctively shut off the communication between his brain stem and his tongue, and he couldn't open his mouth.

His dad wouldn't yell at him or punish him or throw him to the curb over this – Blaine knew that – but there were always other ways of making him feel even worse about the situation. His father's usual chosen method of undermining (whether that choice was intentional or not) was stating blatant but casual remarks played down with such an insignificant tone so no one heard them but Blaine. His mother he knew was endorsing this system entirely unintentionally just out of sheer unawareness, and Blaine wished that she would see she was just as much at fault for constantly changing her mind about the things she promised. As for Cooper, as strained as their relationship was, Blaine had no doubt that his brother was always on his side. Cooper was just too wrapped up in his own head to be able to help most of the time, but that was a trait that he and Blaine shared more than anything else, so Blaine couldn't exactly hate him for it.

"Blaine," said his mother. "You need to tell me what's going on. I'm not asking."

Swallowing, he tried to convince himself that the walls of his bedroom were strong enough to withstand the storm raging outside.

"Kurt's sick," he whispered. "He's sick, and I didn't do anything about it."

"Oh, sweetheart," she sighed, reaching over and wrapping one of his hands in hers. "I'm really sorry. But it's not your fault."

"No, I know it's not, but I didn't… I reacted badly and I wasn't…" Blaine trailed off, shaking his head and staring at the snow-plastered window. The house groaned around them like it was trying to keep its foundation in the ground. "It doesn't matter," Blaine said. "He doesn't want to see me again."

His mother paused for several seconds as the windows shook in their frames. "Honey, if Kurt's dying then you should probably go see him anyway."

Blaine blinked. "He's not dying."

"Oh. Sorry, I thought— What's wrong with him then?"

Blaine raked his fingers through his curls, his heartbeat skipping slightly. "He, uh… He's got m-multiple personalities," he mumbled, avoiding his mother's eyes.

She stared at him for a few seconds as if she wasn't sure whether he was serious. "Multiple personalities?" she echoed. "How… How does that work?"

"I'm not really sure. It's – It's really confusing." Blaine sniffed, tugging at his curls again. "Kurt's just one of them. A few of the others don't really like me."

"Oh my God," she breathed. "Is he okay, though?"

Blaine's breath hitched in his chest as he shook his head. "No."

"I think maybe it would be a good idea for you to stay away from him for awhile."

Blaine's head snapped up. "What?"

"Honey, this sounds _dangerous_. Mental illness isn't something to take lightly. I don't want you getting hurt."

"Just a second ago you told me to go see him anyway," Blaine said flatly, feeling his teeth clench. He should have listened to his instincts and kept his mouth shut.

"I thought you meant cancer or something like that!" his mother insisted. "Bumble, if there's a possibility that Kurt could physically hurt you, then I don't want you near him. There's no way to predict that kind of thing."

Blaine fingers curled tightly in his lap, and the house let out another loud and long groan as it strained in the blizzard. "This is _exactly_ why I didn't want to talk about this, Mom," Blaine spat, his throat constricted.

"Bumble, be _reasonable_. You're eighteen years old. You're too young to be trying to handle this kind of—"

There was suddenly an earsplitting _crack-BOOM-snap-crash_ and the ceiling of Blaine's room was ripped open, the wind howling as it rushed into the room and whipped at their skin and clothes. Massive branches crashed against the floor less than a foot from Blaine's bed, twigs snapping and scattering away. Pieces of ice and snow bit into Blaine's cheeks as his mother yelped and grabbed his arm, yanking him out of bed. Shielding their eyes from the snow and screaming wind, they blindly staggered past the tangle of tree branches to the door. They had to break a few icy branches before they could open the door and fall into the hallway, Blaine yanking the door shut behind them.

"Are you okay?" his mother asked.

He nodded, out of breath as the door rattled and the wind pushed through the crack at the bottom. His teeth were chattering, snow still stuck to his hair.

"What's going on?" Blaine's father demanded, appearing from the door to the master bedroom. "What happened?"

"The tree outside fell onto the house," his mother said shakily. "Crashed through the roof."

His father let out a gruff noise of annoyance, barely audible over the whistling wind inside of Blaine's room. "Damn it, we're going to have to get that fixed," he said before turning to Blaine. "You're okay?"

"Yeah."

"Good. You can sleep in Cooper's room for now. See you in the morning." He turned around and went back to the master bedroom without another word.

Blaine's mother sighed, brushing the snow out of Blaine's hair. "Just try to get some sleep, okay?" she said. "We'll talk more tomorrow."

Blaine swallowed, already dreading it. He bid her a good night and went down the hall to his brother's room.


	60. Compound Fracture

_Compound Fracture  
><em>

Finn's ears were flushed bright pink and his breath fogged in front of his nose as he worked in front of his house on Thursday morning, sweating slightly underneath his puffy coat and thick gloves. He had plugged in his iPod so that he couldn't hear the scraping of his shovel against the pavement over his R.E.M. playlist. The snowplows had already made the rounds to clear the street and as Finn worked to clear away the drifts left by the blizzard from their driveway and front path, an orange truck up the street lifted workmen up into the air to fix the broken electrical cables.

It was a relief to be out of the house in the frozen air, physically working with his music blasting so loudly that he couldn't think too deeply about anything. He'd been trapped in the house with an irritated Burt for too long. Finn could understand why Burt was so frustrated, given that he hadn't been able to talk to Kurt since Sunday (Robbie hadn't wanted to talk on either Monday or Tuesday, he'd accidentally called in the middle of group therapy on Wednesday, and now the phone lines were down), but with Burt constantly fidgeting and growling about how he was going to find the Franklin guy and kill him, Finn was going a little crazy himself.

Plus, any time he thought about Kurt, he got a painful twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach. He figured he was probably entitled to a little nausea where his stepbrother was concerned, but he still didn't want to think about it.

By this point, Finn had managed to clear most of the front walkway, carving a path through the four-foot-deep drifts down towards the road. He stopped and leaned on his shovel for a moment, his arms burning from the exertion, and watched a few clouds float by overhead. The electricians were still at work down the street, and Finn could see a few trees that had blown over during the storm.

He glanced over his shoulder when he heard his name being called, yanking out his earphones. Burt was standing on the porch, the cordless phone from the kitchen in his hand. "What'd you say?" Finn asked.

"Are you getting any service on your cell phone?" Burt called. "I've been trying to reach the hospital but all the phone lines are still down."

Finn dug his cell out of the pocket of his coat. "Nope," he replied. "No bars."

"Damn it."

(To be honest, Finn was a little bit glad that there was no cell service. Regionals was coming up on Sunday and he really wasn't in the mood to put up with Rachel's hourly calls about preparation.)

"You want to keep my cell with you in case the service comes back?"

Burt clumped down the cleared pathway to receive the proffered phone. "Thanks," he said. Finn turned to go back to his shoveling, but Burt stopped him. "Hey, uh… you think you'll come to the hospital this weekend?"

Finn chewed on the inside of his cheek. "I don't know. Maybe."

Burt nodded, swallowing. "Okay, well, whatever you decide. It's up to you." He clapped Finn on the shoulder and headed inside.

Finn stuck his earphones in and went back to work.

* * *

><p>Dr. McManus's office was impeccably clean everywhere but the top of his desk, which was piled with inch-high clutter and barely had enough room for the desktop computer. The walls were painted a soothing red and Kurt wasn't so out of it that he couldn't appreciate the décor. It was now Thursday and Kurt had managed to switch only once in the past two days, to Truman for a brief time on Wednesday (much to the amusement of Dustin and the rest of the Connect-Four club). This was his third individual therapy session with Dr. McManus – at least, it was his third session as himself. Apparently Robbie had also had two sessions but unsurprisingly had remained surly and uncooperative for the duration of both.<p>

"So, how's the medication feeling so far?" Dr. McManus asked from the armchair opposite the couch where Kurt was sitting.

"It's fine, I guess," Kurt replied. "I mean, the switches seem to have subsided pretty well, but it's only been a couple of days."

"Are you feeling woozy at all?"

Kurt shook his head. "Not really. It's a little foggy but not nearly as bad as the last time I was on anti-psychotics."

McManus nodded in approval, scratching out a few notes on his legal pad. "Risperdal tends suppress symptoms pretty well without causing too much numbness." He pushed his glasses up his nose. "How are you getting along with the rest of the guys?"

"They kind of make my head spin, but they're fine."

"And your roommate?"

Kurt's mouth twitched. "I don't like rooming with him."

"Has Scott given you any trouble?"

"No, but… well, I can't sleep very well. He's never quiet."

"I'm sorry, Kurt, but we had to place you with him. I know Scott can be a little nerve-wracking, but he's ultimately harmless and Nick can't quite be fully trusted with a roommate yet."

Kurt sighed, understanding exactly what the doctor meant. Nick was twenty-five and a dubious personality at best, and seemed to have a penchant for destruction on all scales. According to Dustin, Nick had been admitted on an insanity plea from the Ohio state court after suspicious circumstances involving homemade pipe bombs.

Kurt shifted in his seat, his leg jiggling.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm… It's just that my dad hasn't called yet. I haven't spoken to him since Sunday."

McManus' eyebrows shot up. "Oh, I'm so sorry I forgot— There was a big storm up around your town yesterday," he said. "I heard all the phone lines were down."

"Oh," Kurt said, only slightly relieved. Logically, he knew that his dad wasn't trying not to talk to him – the first two mornings Robbie had been in control and not wanted to take Burt's calls, and then on Wednesday Burt had accidentally called in the middle of group therapy – but he still wanted some reassurance that he still had a house to go back to if he made it through this.

"I'd actually like to speak with you about something a little more focused today," said the doctor, snapping Kurt's attention away from his personal thought bubbles.

"What?" he asked, feeling an odd lurch in his stomach as if he knew he wasn't going to like whatever the doctor was about to say.

McManus took off his glasses, cleaning the lenses on the hem of his sweater vest. "I had a call from your father on Monday," he said. "And he wants us to start trying to tackle some of the details surrounding Franklin now."

Kurt said nothing, noticing that his fingertips had gone cold.

"Personally, I told him it would probably be better to wait until you've settled in and been able to relax a little before we tried, but you're legally an adult and you're not completely unable to make decisions regarding your own health, so I wanted to see how you felt about it."

A snake seemed to be working its way through Kurt's lower intestines and it took several seconds before he was able to speak. "Wh-why?"

"Why what?"

Kurt cleared his throat. "Why does my dad want us to do this now?"

McManus paused, his mouth tightening for a moment. "He says he knows who Franklin is."

The snake in Kurt's gut writhed, lashing upwards and latching onto the base of his throat.

"Stay with me, Kurt," McManus said firmly, looking Kurt in the eye. "I know this is stressful but you're not under attack right now."

Kurt's fists had clenched of their own accord. His heart felt like it was trying to push his lungs out through his ribs like bread through a slicer. His head began to ache as he felt someone else trying to snatch the reins from him.

"Breathe, Kurt. You're okay."

Forcing down a swallow, Kurt squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus just on pulling air into his chest through his nose, his bare toes curling against the carpet. A few long minutes passed before he managed to open his eyes again.

"W-who is he?" he asked, his stretched voice cracking halfway through the question.

"That's the problem, unfortunately," said McManus, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Your dad knows who Franklin is but doesn't know his real name or any way of finding him. That's why he wants us to starting working on this now – to see if you can remember any specific details that would help."

Kurt felt the snake sink its teeth into his windpipe. "Why would I want to find him?"

"Kurt, it could help bring you closure," the doctor said gently. "Whatever this Franklin guy did to you, it's going to take a lot of work and time to move past it. That's a given. Would it really be so bad if he was brought to justice in the process?"

Silence.

"Look, Kurt, it's absolutely up to you. I only promised your father that I'd suggest it."

At this point, Kurt was pretty sure he could feel his pulse all the way to the center of his brain. He didn't know if the fact that he hadn't transitioned yet was a result of the anti-psychotics in his system or just a miracle, but he had to grip the edge of the couch cushion for a long time just to make sure he was still there.

"If…" he starts, his voice breathy and wavering. "If we started this now, how would we do it?"

"Well," McManus said, adjusting his glasses. "I'd interview the alters and see if I can get them to talk. It's obvious that you _do_ remember everything pretty well, Kurt – it's just that your alters are keeping the information from you in an attempt to protect you. They don't get that by keeping you split, they're making your life unmanageable. I'd like to try to get one or two of them to understand that."

Kurt frowned in confusion.

"It'll be easier to access your memories and get yourself integrated if there's at least one alter working in tandem with me. But that requires him or her to trust me fully, which can be… complicated."

Kurt sat quietly in thought for several minutes, trying to make sense of all this without allowing himself to transition. "C-can we do it now?" he asked, startling himself with the question.

McManus' eyebrows shot upwards. "You're sure you don't want at least a few days to get used to the idea?"

Kurt swallowed, his fingers shaking. "I just want to get it over with. I'm sick of all this and I want to be better." His voice cracked; _being better_ sounded like such a fantasy at this point, about as likely as flying to the moon.

"Okay," said McManus. "Now, you should know there's a distinct possibility that your alters could get violent in reaction to this. It's perfectly normal with cases like yours – the equilibrium that the alters create is upset and they don't like that – but for safety reasons we should conduct this in the solitary confinement room."

Kurt's heart lurched and he felt the air in his lungs crackle.

"Is that all right?" McManus asked gently.

Curling his fingers around each other to stop them from shaking, Kurt nodded.

* * *

><p>The solitary confinement room was really nothing more than a padded cell, but Kurt was shocked by how… non-dramatic it looked. It was larger than he thought it would be, and the walls and floor were cushioned just enough so that if someone were to throw themselves against them they wouldn't be hurt, but it looked like the padding was thin enough to discourage such an action. The ceiling was painted the same sea foam green as the walls in the common area, and there were a couple of blankets and pillows piled in the corner.<p>

"Occasionally it's safer to have a patient spend the night in here rather than risk the safety of their roommate," said McManus, seeing Kurt frown at the pile.

"Oh."

McManus pulled a small handheld tape recorder out of his pocket. "Is it okay with you if I record this?"

Kurt blinked. "Why?"

"It's helpful for me to refer to, as well as a possible method to help along the integration. If you listen to the recording later it could help to bridge the gaps you experience."

Kurt sighed. "Okay."

The doctor placed a firm hand on Kurt's shoulder. "Are you ready?"

Kurt nodded, wiping his palms on the legs of his sweatpants as he sat down against the wall. His heart was thudding against his ribs so loudly he was sure Dr. McManus and the two orderlies he'd brought with him could hear it.

McManus sat cross-legged on the soft floor close to the middle of the room, and the orderlies stood by the far wall. It was more than a little nerve-wracking to have three people watching him this intently, but Kurt didn't protest and instead stared at his toes. He shivered slightly even though it wasn't cold in the room.

"Okay, Kurt, try to relax," McManus began, speaking slowly and quietly. "No matter what happens, you're safe in here."

Kurt pressed his lips together, dragging a long breath through his nose and deep into his lungs, shutting his eyes.

"Now, try to tell me about Franklin."

Kurt's shoulders reflexively stiffened, his toes curling against the padded floor. He swallowed and kept his eyes shut.

"Can you remember what Franklin looks like?"

"No," Kurt choked out, his breath hitching. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, drawing his knees up to his chest as he felt a shifting inside his skull.

"What do you remember about him?"

Bits and pieces of the foggy dreams Kurt had experienced were flashing through his mind, making him feel dizzy and nauseous. He could almost smell his old house and feel a pair of arms carrying him up the stairs. "R-rough hands," he finally said, the words forced out of his throat like a bone he'd choked on. His breath quickened.

"It's all right, Kurt, you're safe."

_I don't feel safe_.

He was glad when he felt someone else shove him aside.

* * *

><p>Sitting against the cushioned wall of the confinement room, Kurt had drawn his legs against his chest and every muscle had gone rigid. McManus studied him carefully, gauging his movements and body language, and made sure to speak in a calm, low tone of voice.<p>

"It's all right, Kurt, you're safe," he said, and wasn't surprised when Kurt's shoulders abruptly dropped and he sat up a little straighter. He wasn't familiar enough with the alters to identify them just by their mannerisms, so he kept his voice level and asked, "Who am I speaking with now?"

Unlike a few moments before, Kurt was now making direct eye contact, his eyebrows dropped and his lip slightly curled in a vaguely threatening expression. "We don't want to talk to you, you fucking quack," he spat, his voice high-pitched and oddly young.

"I don't believe you speak for the group, Eleanor," McManus replied evenly, recognizing the girlish lilt despite the crude language.

"Fuck off."

McManus took this in stride, leaning his elbows on his knees. "I'd like to talk to you about Franklin."

That seemed to grab Eleanor's attention. Kurt paused, the muscles beneath his eyes tightening in suspicion as if he was trying to figure out why he was being asked this particular question. "What about him?" he asked, and McManus was glad to hear that the immediate aggression had left Kurt's voice.

"Well, Zack's told me that Franklin's the one who hurt you," he explained. Technically, it was Kurt who had reported that particular piece of information, but he'd only been relaying what Zack had said previously.

"He never hurt me," Kurt said carefully.

"Okay. Do you know who he is?"

"Only what Zack's told me."

"Which is?"

"He's a bad man."

"Did Zack ever tell you why Franklin's bad?"

"No."

McManus made a mental note of the way Eleanor was behaving, slightly confused since it didn't quite line up with what Kurt and his father had said about her. It was fairly obvious that there wasn't much to glean from her, though. "I'd like to speak to Zack now, if that's alright."

Kurt grimaced. "It's not."

McManus was surprised to hear Robbie's deeper voice replace Eleanor's. He hadn't been expecting a transition that quick. "Why not?" he asked.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "It's none of your fucking business," he snapped, pulling himself to his feet. He began to pace the room with his arms crossed over his chest in annoyance. McManus waved the orderlies back as they moved to restrain him; it wasn't necessary quite yet.

"Robbie, maybe you can tell me a little about—"

"Franklin, I know," Kurt drawled. "Not going to happen. And you can take that tape recorder and stick it where the sun don't shine."

"Do you know who he is?" McManus pressed, letting the recorder remain where it was.

Kurt whipped around, his eyes narrowed and fists clenched. "What the _fuck_ is your problem?" he demanded.

"Robbie, you know I'm only trying to help Kurt," McManus insisted.

"Yeah, well, he doesn't need your talk-about-your-feelings bullshit, okay?" Kurt spat. "He's got everything he needs."

McManus quickly snatched the prompt. "I suppose you mean yourself?"

Kurt was silent, his jaw twitching.

"You just have to trust me when I say it'll help Kurt more if you don't keep secrets, Robbie."

McManus flinched as Kurt shot forward, leaning down with his face only a threateningly few inches from McManus' nose. His eyes bored into the doctor's, his lips pulled back and his jaw jutting forward as he spoke very slowly.

"_Fuck. Off._"

Waving the orderlies back a second time without breaking eye contact with Kurt, McManus waited for several long, tense seconds for Kurt to finally step back, still eyeing the doctor with a hostile glare.

"Robbie, this would be much easier on everyone if you—"

"The kid told you to fuck off," Kurt snarled lowly, his voice changed yet again. "You got a hearing problem?"

McManus frowned. As stressful as this sort of thing could be, it was unusual to see someone switch this rapidly. It probably meant one of two things: either Kurt's memories were locked down tight and the alters were now convening to keep them that way, or the memories were much nearer to the surface than McManus had originally thought, and now the alters were panicking.

"And you are?" he prompted, taking careful note of the aggressive set to Kurt's shoulders.

"I will fuck you sideways if you lay a hand on my kid," Kurt growled.

"Ah. It's good to finally meet you, Craig."

"I'm warning you right now – back the fuck off."

"Craig, I'm not trying to hurt you," McManus promised. "Or Kurt. You're not under attack here."

"Bullshit." Kurt's fingers twitched and clenched into fists.

"The only thing I'm trying to do is find out anything you can remember about Franklin. You think you can help me out?"

"Oh, yeah, sure thing!" Kurt spat mockingly. "And you know what, doc, while we're at it, why don't you grab your little faggy-ass ukulele and we can sing Kumbaya!"

"Craig, I know you're just trying to protect Kurt," McManus said. "That's perfectly understandable and I'm not trying to keep you from doing that. But if you really want to keep him from getting hurt, then you need to work _with_ me."

Kurt's lips pulled back in a snarl. "You've got no say in what I need to do, asshole. He's _my_ kid."

McManus saw an opportunity, and quickly seized it.

"Of course he is."

Kurt stopped short, blinking in surprise.

"I'm not going to tell you you're not his father, Craig," McManus said. "For all intents and purposes, you are."

"What the fuck is your angle here?" Kurt demanded, sounding more confused than anything else now.

"No angle," McManus promised, holding up his hands as he played along. "You're a better father to Kurt than Burt is, aren't you? You always protect him, no matter what. Right?"

Kurt paused, eyeing McManus with suspicion. "Burt Hummel's a piece of shit," he said.

"Why's that?"

"It's 'cause of him that Kurt's completely fucked in the head."

"Maybe you could elaborate on that for me?" McManus prompted.

Kurt's teeth gritted audibly against each other and he turned away, shaking his head and raking his fingers through his hair.

McManus tried a different approach. "Did… did Burt ever do anything? Directly, I mean. Did he ever do something to Kurt that you didn't like?"

"Yes."

"What did he do?"

"He left him."

"For how long?"

"I don't know."

Kurt's face contorted, the muscles in his neck, shoulders, and arms tightening. His head shook of its own accord, as if he was trying to get rid of an uncomfortable chill.

"Craig?" McManus said. "You still with me?"

There was no response. Kurt's eyes were moving rapidly back and forth and his breath was quickening. McManus couldn't tell if he'd transitioned or not. Kurt's hands were tense, the fingers rigid.

Abruptly, Kurt's back curled, his shoulders jerking forward as if he were about to vomit. His jaw jutted out again, his eyes squeezing shut and his teeth clicking. McManus stood up, about to try to calm Kurt down.

However, whoever was in control didn't want their personal space invaded, and Kurt let out a startling gruff barking sound halfway between a groan and a yelp, edging away. McManus stopped where he was, allowing Kurt to wind the fingers of one hand into his hair, the other tugging nervously on the hem of his shirt.

"Kurt," McManus said softly. "You're safe. Tell me what's happening."

Kurt's breath hitched in his throat, his chest shuddering.

And then he screamed, and threw himself into the closest wall.

* * *

><p>The denim of his father's jeans was rough underneath Kurt's hands as he gripped Dad's leg, his face half-hidden behind Dad's hip as the front door swung open. "<em>It's so great to see you!<em>" he heard Momma say. A man walked in, taller than Dad, with spiky-ish hair and a big smile. Kurt liked how his clothes looked like they hadn't been ironed.

"_You look great, Linda_," he said and gave Momma a hug. "_So, where's the little guy?_"

"_Kurt?_" Momma called, and Dad put a hand on the top of Kurt's head.

"_Come on, buddy, don't be shy,_" Dad said.

Kurt didn't say anything, chewing on his thumbnail as the stranger came closer.

"_Hi, Kurt_," he said. "_I'm John. I used to go to school with your mom._"

"Were you a cheerleader?" Kurt asked, saying the first thing that came to mind. "Momma was a cheerleader."

John laughed. "_No, I wasn't a cheerleader. But your mom and I were really good friends._"

Momma came up beside Dad, reaching down to ruffle Kurt's hair. "_John's going to stay here with you while Dad and I are on our trip. You guys'll have lots of fun._"

* * *

><p>Kurt's legs thrashed against the floor as the orderlies held him, pinning his shoulders down and trying not to let his legs kick. McManus knelt beside them, not touching Kurt but speaking calmly over the sound of Kurt's heaving breath. Eyes wide, Kurt's back arched as he tried to blindly free himself from the orderlies' grasp.<p>

"It's all right, Kurt, you're safe. Nothing's going to hurt you here."

A half-growl, half-moan ripped out of Kurt's throat, his arms lashing at the orderlies' grip.

"Tell me what you're seeing, Kurt," McManus pressed.

Kurt's eyes rolled back in his head, the tendons of his neck stretched tight as the muscles around his mouth worked to form soundless words.

"It's all right," the doctor repeated. "No one will hurt you. Tell me what you see."

The air halted in Kurt's chest, his ribs opening and closing without drawing breath.

* * *

><p>"<em>Dude, you have an AWESOME car collection!<em>"

Kurt pawed through the pile of matchbox cars that he'd collected – all sixty-two of them. John was sitting on the edge of Kurt's bed, and Dad and Momma had already left for their trip. Kurt held up a blue Mercedes-Benz. "This one's my favorite."

John reached down and picked up a red Ferrari. "_Let's race them._"

Kurt perked up at that. Dad was a lot of fun but didn't have a lot of time to play with him – he usually had to spend time with the really big cars in the shop instead. "Where?"

John grinned. "_All over the house. No limits._"

* * *

><p>"What are you seeing, Kurt?" McManus asked as Kurt's eyes reeled, his breath coming in short desperate bursts. "Are you alone?"<p>

Kurt's spine arched again. "_No,_" he whimpered.

McManus felt a small wave of relief – Kurt responding to the question was a good sign. "Who's with you?"

A sob squeezed out of Kurt's mouth, his face contorting in agony.

"Is it Franklin?"

"_J-John—_" he gasped.

"What is John doing?"

Kurt's teeth bared and he let out a wordless snarl, jerking in the orderlies' grip. His hands lashed up at the doctor, fingers curled into claws.

* * *

><p>"<em>Dinner's ready, Kurt!<em>" John called from the kitchen. Kurt jumped up from where he'd been coloring on the coffee table. "_What movie do you want to watch?_"

Kurt accepted the proffered plate of pizza and went back to the living room. John sat on the couch with his own plate as Kurt pulled his favorite movie off the rack, sliding the tape into the VCR.

"Franklin the Turtle's my favorite," he said as he joined John on the sofa. He grabbed the remote and pressed Play.

"_My middle name is Franklin._"

Kurt's eyes opened wide. "Really?"

"_Yep._"

"Can I call you Franklin instead of John? I like it better."

John chuckled. "_Sure._"

* * *

><p>Kurt kicked and thrashed, trying to scratch the orderlies' faces. When that didn't work, he tried to bite their arms, but they managed to keep their limbs away from Kurt's teeth.<p>

"Is John hurting you, Kurt?" McManus pressed.

The only response was a strained half-groan from deep inside Kurt's chest.

"Is he touching you?"

This time, a loud, hoarse cry.

* * *

><p>"<em>Let's get a cake!<em>"

Kurt blinked at John in confusion. "Momma doesn't let me have cake."

John flapped a hand. "_Screw that. You deserve it. What kind do you want?_"

Kurt hesitated. "I dunno…"

"_Oh, come on, kiddo,_" John insisted. "_Let's have some fun. What kind do you want?_"

"Momma doesn't let me have cake," he repeated.

"_Well, your mom's not here,_" John grinned. "_Come on. We'll go out to the store and get one. What do you want? Chocolate?_"

"I like chocolate…" Kurt said slowly, but his mom's voice was still nagging at him.

"_Great! Let's go._" John grabbed his car keys.

"But Momma—"

"_—doesn't have to find out,_" John said, grinning again. He winked. "_It'll be our little secret._"


	61. When The SeeSaw Snaps

_When The See-Saw Snaps  
><em>

The wind tugged at Kurt's hair and clothes as he opened his eyes. Dead leaves swirled around his feet, blowing across the playground as the wind rattled the jungle-gym and made the empty merry-go-round spin on its axel. He blinked at the grey clouds rolling across the sky, his stomach twisting. Stormy weather here was never a good sign.

He shifted from foot to foot, his arms crossed over his chest as he frowned at the sky. The alters were scattered around the playground as well, but Eleanor and Robbie were both warily watching the clouds along with Kurt. Craig was the only one missing.

Eleanor came over to stand by Kurt. "What's going on?"

He worried at his bottom lip. "I don't know."

"Craig's up top," said Robbie from Kurt's other side. "Can't be good."

Eleanor stuck her thumbnail between her teeth as a low rumble of thunder rolled in from the distance, lightning flashing over the horizon. "You think they'll drug us?" she asked.

"I don't know," Kurt repeated. He didn't know what the playground might look like if he was heavily sedated, and he wasn't sure he wanted to find out.

* * *

><p>Blaine's head was pounding as he crossed the parking lot towards school on Friday morning, shivering underneath his coat and trying not to slip on the icy pavement. The streets had been cleared of snow and the power was back on, but the only real reason he was forcing himself to come to school today was because he needed an excuse to get away from home. Not to mention that Rachel would have his head if he didn't show up to rehearsal today (Regionals was being held on Sunday, so Rachel was in hyperdrive along with Mr. Schue).<p>

Trying to get rid of the headache beating against the walls of his skull, Blaine breathed deeply, hoping the frigid air in his lungs would make his nerves quiet down. The majority of yesterday had been spent arguing with his parents (more because of his father's homophobia than anything else), and workmen had been there sawing away at the tree in Blaine's bedroom, so Blaine was not looking forward to the loud school bells and Glee harmonization and kids jabbering at each other in the hallways and the slamming lockers.

He needed sleep.

"Dude, you okay?"

Blaine jumped slightly as he passed through the front entrance, noticing Puck next to him for the first time. "What? Yeah. Why?"

Puck shrugged. "I said hey and you didn't answer. Plus you look like something out of _Left4Dead._"

Blaine huffed. "I do not."

"Your bowtie's crooked."

Blaine blinked, his hand shooting up to his neck to feel that his bowtie was not just crooked, but almost entirely vertical. He sighed, his cheeks flushing slightly, and took the tie off completely rather than try to fix it. Puck gave him a strange look as Blaine stuffed it into his coat pocket.

"You sure you're okay?" Puck asked again.

Blaine shook his head. "Yeah, I'm— I'm fine, just… issues at home is all."

The bell rang and Blaine winced as the sound made his brain stem twist around his spine. Puck clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, dude," he said. "Let's go punch the crap out of the boxing bag."

Blaine sighed, grateful for the excuse to not go to class, and followed Puck down the hall to the weight room.

Dropping his backpack and coat by the basketball cart, Blaine stripped off his sweater and polo and grabbed a pair of boxing gloves from the shelf, pulling the Velcro tight with his teeth. Rather than simply sit on the bench like he'd done the last time they were here together, Puck also pulled on a pair of gloves and took the punching bag next to Blaine's.

"So, you wanna talk or something?" Puck offered as he threw his first punch.

Blaine shrugged, driving his fist into the bag. "Not sure if it's something you'd get," he said.

Puck gave him a dark look. "Yeah? Try me. I've got a lot more crap in my life than people think."

"Sorry," Blaine said, switching his stance to put more force into his punches. "Just… my dad's kind of an ass."

Puck actually stopped hitting his bag in order to turn and give Blaine an incredulous stare. "You really think I wouldn't get that?"

"I know your dad's MIA, but mine's actually _there_, all the time," Blaine said, grunting slightly as the strength behind his blows increased. "He's a homophobic asshole and frankly, I'd rather he was gone like your dad."

Puck's jaw twitched as he turned back to his bag, but he didn't say anything.

Blaine's shoulders and biceps began to burn slightly from the workout, but relief was beginning to seep into his muscles and he could feel his headache slowly subsiding.

* * *

><p>As much as Burt wanted to direct every ounce of his energy into finding Franklin and possibly beating him within an inch of his life, then allowing him to heal just to beat him all the way to his grave, Burt was an adult and there were responsibilities he had to take care of. Not the least of which was his actual job.<p>

His office desk was just about as cluttered as the rusty gears that formed the inner workings of his head, but he managed to make sense of it every day and juggle fundraisers and weekly plane tickets to Washington. Today, his focus was reading up on the latest bills the legislature was trying to pass, though it was difficult to concentrate with the ghost of Franklin feeling like it was looming over Burt's shoulder constantly.

And Linus wasn't making it much easier.

"What is it?" Burt asked wearily as Linus burst into the office for what had to be the tenth time in the last hour. Burt held his empty mug out. "You mind getting me some more coffee?"

Linus took the mug but didn't leave immediately. "Uh, there's a Dr. McManus on line one," he said. "He says it's important?"

Burt's head snapped up. "Okay, thanks," he said. He waited until Linus had left before grabbing the phone. "Hello?"

"_Hi, Mr. Hummel, this is—_"

"Yeah, my assistant told me," Burt waved him off. "What's going on?"

"_Kurt managed to get a name for you,_" McManus said. "_Just a first name, though, and I don't know how much use it'll be. Does 'John' line up with what you remember about this Franklin guy?_"

Burt felt his stomach curl around itself as something deep inside his head _clicked_ almost audibly. "Yes," he said, a little breathlessly. "I-Is Kurt okay?"

"_It… It was a long night._"

Burt swallowed. "What happened?"

"_He's not hurt or anything, but he did have a very hard time recalling this stuff. We had to let him spend the night in solitary._"

Burt's teeth ground against each other as he suddenly felt a strong urge to punch something. "I'm coming to see him tomorrow," he said. "Is that all right? Does he need some more time to calm down?"

"_Well, it's hard to tell. He's back in the ward now, but I haven't actually seen Kurt since the beginning of our session yesterday. He's dealing with a lot of stuff right now so I can't promise that Kurt'll be back. I think a visit from you would do him good, though._" There was a pause, and then McManus added, "_But if it makes you feel any better, Mr. Hummel, it was Kurt who chose to talk about it. I left it entirely up to him._"

It didn't really make Burt feel any better about it, but he swallowed and thanked the doctor anyway.

"_I'll see you tomorrow, then,_" said McManus.

Burt said goodbye and hung up the phone, praying to God that Kurt would be there when he saw him.

* * *

><p>By this point, most of the people outside of the Glee miniature social circle seemed to have forgotten about the article Jacob had posted in mid-January, and Finn was grateful for it. The cafeteria was crowded but he didn't notice anyone casting him a side-eye or see anyone mouth "Hey, what happened to Hudson's crazy brother?" to their friends. Jacob himself had stopped trying to talk to Finn after his nose had been broken, and had refocused his energies on filming the Cheerios whenever one of them bent over in the hallways.<p>

Rachel was already rattling on at a mile a minute about Regionals preparation when Finn sat down at the Glee table for lunch. "Finn! Good, you're here," she said, her eyes glinting the way they always did when she was frighteningly focused. "Because the school was shut down yesterday we're going to have an extra rehearsal tomorrow morning here from eight to twelve. Whatever plans you have, cancel them."

Finn blinked at her. "Okay." He knew Burt and his mom were going to visit Kurt tomorrow, but he would rather be pouring his energy into something that didn't make him feel sick.

"How's Kurt doing?" asked Mike, earning a surprised glance from Rachel, as if she was amazed he was talking about anything other than Regionals.

Finn stabbed at his plate with a fork, purposefully not looking Mike in the eye. "He's doing good, as far as I know," he replied as nonchalantly as possible. "I haven't gotten to talk with him since before he left, but I think he's settled in and stuff now."

"What's the hospital like?" asked Tina.

Finn tried not to make it too obvious how much he _didn't_ want to talk about this. "I dunno, I've never been there. I know it's pretty liberal, though. They're not kept locked up or anything."

Rachel cut in then, placing a hand on Finn's shoulder as she addressed the group. "While I'm very concerned about Kurt and how he's progressing in regards to his mental health, we agreed that we would focus solely on our set list for the next couple of days. Now, I know we've got our costumes in order, but since us girls are dying our hair for the competition, we need to figure out the details for a sleepover at one of our houses. Any volunteers?"

Finn drew a relieved breath, sitting back to listen to what felt like the first normal conversation in months.

* * *

><p>It was impossible to tell how much time had passed when Kurt was at the playground – partly because it was never night time here, but also because there had been times when it seemed like five minutes and he'd woken up to see that the calendar had skipped ahead a day, as well as times when he'd been stuck with his alters for days on end and found that he'd only been gone for an hour.<p>

Now, it felt as though Kurt had been here for at least ten hours, and the wind still hadn't died down, the storm on the horizon only moving closer. Thunder rolled across the sky and vibrated through the air, making the blackish clouds ripple like waves in a pond. Kurt was spinning Tyler and Zack around on the carousel, keeping an eye skyward as the lightning grew more frequent.

Zack didn't seem to be paying attention to the storm, but Tyler was looking upwards along with Kurt, clutching Raleigh in the crook of his arm. "How long do you think it'll be before the storm's over?" Tyler asked as the carousel slowly spun.

Kurt shrugged. "I don't know."

"Faster!" Zack piped up.

"Tyler wants to go slowly, Zack," Kurt said sternly, giving the carousel another push. "You can spin fast later."

Zack pouted at Kurt for a moment, but then he froze, and the pout melted slowly off his face. His eyes widened at something over Kurt's shoulder. At the same time, Tyler screamed, scrabbling backwards.

Kurt turned around just in time to see an iron crowbar swing into his vision before it collided with his stomach. His lungs deflated with a solid _whoomph_ of air and he doubled over, his ribs screaming in agony as they struggled to open. Unable to stand up, his knees buckled and he ended up on all fours, his mouth open as he tried desperately to breathe. He could barely hear Tyler sobbing over the ringing in his ears.

A foot kicked him in the ribs, making him fall over onto his side. He still couldn't pull air into his chest and the muscles of his abdomen felt like they were simultaneously paralyzed and on fire. He gritted his teeth, looking up as another peal of thunder rattled the clouds.

"T-Truman," he choked out, feeling rage boil in his stomach.

Truman glared down at him, twisting the crowbar in his hands. "You fucking _prude_," he spat.

And then he swung the crowbar up, and brought it down on Kurt's head.

* * *

><p>Burt coughed in the small cloud of dust that swirled around him as he climbed up into the attic. It wasn't as dusty as it might've been if they had lived here for more than a year, but there were still a significant number of boxes and pieces of unused furniture stored up here. Burt reached down and gave Carole a hand as she pulled herself up the ladder into the drafty room.<p>

"I should probably do some cleaning up here," she mused, waving the floating dust particles away from her face. "Where are Linda's things?"

Burt headed over to a smaller stack of boxes set slightly apart from the rest. "Right here," he said, pulling open the top of the first one. Carole came up to stand beside him. "We're looking for yearbooks, address books, phone books – anything that'll give us something about this John guy and how to find him."

"Okay," Carole said, opening another box. "You're coming to Regionals on Sunday, aren't you?" she asked as she began to unpack stacks of books.

Burt closed the box he'd been pawing through as it contained nothing other than old clothes. "Uh, I don't know," he said absentmindedly, too focused on the task at hand. "I guess it depends on how Kurt's doing when we see him tomorrow. If he needs me to I'll probably go again on Sunday."

Carole frowned as she removed a stack of Danielle Steele novels. "Burt, you should come to Regionals. Finn needs your support as much as mine."

"Carole, I'd love to be there, but if Kurt needs me then I'm gonna be there to help him."

Carole's mouth pursed. "Kurt is not your only son, Burt. I think you've forgotten a little about how Finn's dealing with all this."

Burt turned around with a surprised frown. "Carole, of course Finn's my kid. That's not even a question. But I think we both know he's more stable than Kurt, and he can handle his own."

"And the doctors can handle Kurt on their own for one day, Burt," Carole said firmly. "Just because Finn's not a multiple doesn't mean he should be left on his own."

"Carole, I'm not trying to leave him on his own!" Burt protested as she cracked open a small address binder and began to flip through the pages. "He knows how to handle himself and—"

"Burt."

"—frankly, when Kurt's in this much of a crisis, he takes priority."

"Burt."

"I mean, if Finn was having serious problems, whether or not he was sick, he'd take priority too."

"_Burt_."

"What?"

Carole turned around with the small binder in her hand, her eyes watering. "I found him."

Burt's heart catapulted downward into his gut and he reached to take the booklet from her. "What? How do you know?"

Carole gave it to him, a hand over her mouth. She looked sick.

Burt stared at the page, his heart suddenly racing at a dangerous speed. He nearly dropped the book as the name jumped out at him from the paper.

_John Truman._


	62. The Fox And Weasel Are Coming

_The Fox And Weasel Are Coming  
><em>

After dropping Finn off at school on Saturday morning for his pre-Regionals rehearsal, Burt and Carole headed straight for the highway to Athens. Neither of them had slept for the duration of the night, and they'd made a joint decision to not tell Finn about what they'd found in Linda's old address book. Finn was stressed out enough as it was, and he needed a break from All Things Kurt, at least for a few days.

For the entire three hours and two minutes between Lima and the parking lot in front of the Appalachian Behavioral Health Center, Burt was silent, his teeth clenched and his knuckles white where he gripped the steering wheel. It wasn't until they'd parked in front of the hospital and were about to climb out of the car when Carole finally mustered up the courage to gently grip Burt's arm, stopping him from opening the door.

"Burt, what exactly are you planning on doing?" she asked softly.

"What are you talking about?"

"I mean," she started slowly, hesitant. She knew more than most just how bad Burt's temper could be, especially if he'd been holding it in for so long. "When you see Kurt, what are you going to do?"

Burt frowned, sitting back in his seat. "You mean if Kurt's there or if it's one of the others?"

"Either," Carole said. "Do you really think Kurt wants to know about Truman?"

"Maybe he already knows," Burt replied darkly.

Carole shook her head, unwilling to believe that Kurt would have kept something that big secret. A few cigarette burns were one thing. Holding his own rapist (Carole wanted to vomit) in his head for years was quite another. "Burt, you can't go attacking Truman," she said.

"I'm not going to _attack_ him, Carole!"

"I don't mean physically, Burt. You pushed Zack too far last week – I want you to be careful you don't do the same to Truman."

Burt's jaw twitched. "I'd be more concerned for Zack's wellbeing than Truman's."

Carole shook her head vehemently. "No," she said firmly. "No. Truman has the capacity to _hurt_ him, Burt. He's also willing, and he might even actively _want_ to hurt Kurt. The last time we provoked him, he tried to stab Finn. Do you really want to risk Kurt ending up in the hospital again?"

Burt's voice was pained – he knew she was right, but he didn't quite want to admit it. "He's already _in_ the hospital."

"You know what I meant." Carole took a deep breath, wrapping her hand around Burt's fingers. "Just promise me you won't push him."

"Truman or Kurt?"

"All of them."

Burt's mouth pressed into a thin line, his eyes hard and determined. But he finally let out a long exhale and nodded.

Carole squeezed his hand. "You are amazing," she said resolutely.

"I don't know about that," he muttered as she gave him a peck on the cheek. "Let's go."

"It'll be fine," she added, knowing that the odds of 'fine' had grown exponentially slimmer in the past twenty-four hours. Burt knew it too, but he returned her assurances with a wan smile before stepping out of the car.

They signed in on the Visitor Register sheet at the front desk and were allowed to pass through to the elevator up to the second floor. While the ground floor consisted entirely of doctor's offices and outpatient treatment facilities (group meeting rooms and the like), the second floor was the residence hall. Divided into twelve separate wards (six for men and six for women) all with various patient capacities, the patients were grouped together not by their illness but rather their illnesses' severity, and the more residents in one ward, the less sick they were. Kurt was in the ward with the fewest people.

Burt and Carole checked in at the small nurses' station and walked down the hall towards the blue double doors to Kurt's ward, Carole clutching Burt's hand all the way. As the nurse at the station had instructed, they waited outside the doors in silence until Dr. McManus appeared, a pen tucked behind one ear and another five in his shirt pocket.

"How is he?" Burt pressed before the doctor had even reached them. "Is Kurt back?"

Dr. McManus stopped in front of them, his fingers fiddling with the strap holding his ID card. "No, he isn't, not so far as I'm aware," he said apologetically. "The last time I saw him was about two hours ago, so things might've changed, but I doubt it."

Burt swallowed and Carole's heart sank. She squeezed Burt's hand tighter, worrying at her lip.

"So… who's been awake for the last day and a half?" Burt asked breathlessly.

Dr. McManus pushed his glasses up his nose. "Well, up until early this morning it was Zack, I think. Since he spent the night in solitary I can't be entirely sure if anyone else came out during that time, but my bet would be they did. I can't say who, though." He coughed lightly. "Since Zack left, however, Robbie's been awake consistently throughout the day."

Burt nodded, and Carole forced herself to breathe evenly.

"How much do you know about Robbie, exactly?" McManus asked.

Carole blinked at the question in confusion. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, is there anyone in Kurt's life – past or present – you think he could be based on? I know Kurt has a brother."

Burt shook his head. "No, Finn's nothing like Robbie, and Robbie's been around for years. Kurt didn't even meet Finn until high school."

McManus nodded, his mouth pursing in thought.

"What?" Burt prompted.

"I think I may have a theory as to Robbie's origins," he said. "I've noticed some pretty telltale trends in his behavior indicating that he's the peacemaker of the group."

Carole's frown only deepened. "What does that mean?"

McManus scratched at the back of his neck. "Well, when I tried to get Eleanor to talk about Franklin, as soon as she started Robbie kicked her out and became extremely uncooperative. But," he continued. "Robbie also comes out after pretty much every emotional outburst that Kurt experiences, not to mention the fact that Kurt's told me Robbie will often take over just so that Craig or Eleanor don't."

"I don't understand," Carole pressed.

"I think Robbie steadies the ship, so to speak," McManus clarified. "I could be wrong, but the way I see it he seems to be the alter whose job it is to keep everything on a plateau. He'll try to stop anything that might make Kurt's stress levels elevate."

Burt glanced through the small window in the door to the ward. "And… and that's a good thing, right?"

"It can be," said the doctor. "Robbie is most likely the reason Kurt's made it thus far, but that doesn't mean he won't fight integration tooth and nail."

Carole felt her heart lurch a second time.

"Were you able to find anything about this John character?" McManus asked, and Carole felt the skin of Burt's hand go a little colder.

"He… he's Truman," Burt managed. "Truman is Franklin. I mean, he's John." He shook his head. "They're all the same."

McManus' eyes opened wide. "An abuser alter? How do you know?"

Burt told him about the address book in the attic, and the doctor frowned deeply. "Unfortunately, that's pretty damning evidence there," he said. "It makes sense, though. Kurt's mind had to figure out a way to protect itself; it's not that uncommon a reaction in someone developing DID."

Burt didn't want to hear the statistics. "How do we get rid of him?"

McManus let out a long breath, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "We get Kurt integrated. We get him better."

"Can we see him now?" Carole asked, her voice trembling slightly.

McManus blinked, as if he'd just remembered why they were there in the first place, and nodded. "I'm afraid we had to put him back in solitary a couple hours ago," he said, and Carole felt Burt's fingers clench between hers. "Robbie tried to hit one of the other residents."

"I want to see my son," Burt snapped.

"You can see him," McManus said quickly. "Of course you can. But he needs to stay in solitary until things calm down enough, and I'm going to have to ask someone to stay with you while you're there. They'll wait outside the door as a safety measure."

Burt's hand clenched again. Carole squeezed back until his fingers relaxed, and they followed Dr. McManus down another hallway.

For Carole, this particular hallway seemed to grow longer the further they walked, though with the pastel yellow walls and soft carpeting it was clearly making an effort to be friendly. Dr. McManus stopped in front of one of the doors and an orderly that had joined them from the nurses' station jingled his keys as he unlocked it, then stepped back. Taking a deep breath, Burt entered the room with Carole a step behind.

There was a split second during which Carole thought they'd been brought to an empty room by mistake – the cushioned walls and floor were vacant aside from a small pile of blankets and a pillow tossed unceremoniously in the corner. Then she followed Burt's gaze to her right, and the breath left her lungs in a heartbeat.

"I'll be back to check on you in about an hour," said McManus. Neither of them heard him, and he disappeared back down the corridor as the orderly shut the door.

Kurt was pressed into the corner, his knees pulled tight against his chest and his ankles crossed. His hands were laid flat against the walls on both sides, his fingertips gripping the padding as if he were afraid he was about to be sucked through the wall and never heard from again. He was wearing sweatpants and Robbie's favorite Black Sabbath t-shirt, though it was clear that Robbie was not there, and from the faint odor Carole could tell he hadn't showered in at least a day. His eyes were wide and as Burt knelt in front of him, he let out a barely-audible whimper and tried to pull back even further. His toes curled against the floor.

"Kurt?" Burt said gently. "I'm here, if you can hear me."

"Burt," Carole whispered. "I think it's Zack."

"I know."

Burt sat back, leaning against the wall as close to Kurt as he could get without making Kurt recoil. Kurt wrapped his arms around his knees, and Carole flinched when she saw that his arms were covered in faint bite marks.

"Zack," she called softly. "Zack, can you hear me?"

"_Go away!_" Kurt cried, shuddering as his eyes squeezed shut.

"What's going on, sweetheart?"

Kurt's body convulsed. "Row, row, row your boat," he sang, his voice breathy and quivering. "Gently down the stream…"

Carole looked in desperation to Burt, who seemed as lost as she felt.

"He… he used to sing that," Burt said, his eyes almost as wide as Kurt's. "When he was little, I'd find him hiding under the bed sometimes, singing that."

"Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily…"

"I've never seen Zack act like this."

"Life is but a dream. Row, row, row…"

"Zack?" Burt said, reaching out towards Kurt to touch his shoulder. Kurt yelped and smacked his hand away in a panic. "I'm not going to hurt you," Burt promised, his voice cracking.

"Gently down the stream!"

Carole swiped at her eyes, trying not to notice how Kurt was pulling all his limbs inward, trying to make himself as small as possible.

"Merrily, merri—" His hoarse voice was choked off as his ribs compressed and forced out a sob he'd been trying to hold in. Carole bit her lip as he struggled to breathe, clenching her fists to fight the impulse to just lean over and hold him in the hopes of being some sort of anchor. Burt seemed to be having a hard time keeping distant as well, but they both knew it was a bad idea to cross whatever lines Kurt laid down when the alters were awake.

Burt lost that battle the moment Kurt lifted his arm and clamped his teeth around his wrist.

"Zack, stop—" Burt was trying to sound calm and firm, but he only managed to sound desperate. He reached forward and was clearly about to pull Kurt's arm away from his mouth, but as his fingers made contact with Kurt's skin, Kurt screamed and lashed out, blindly landing a solid-ish blow to Burt's jaw before scrabbling out of the corner and shooting to the other side of the room.

Burt quickly pulled himself back to his feet; Carole did the same. Kurt had pressed himself flat against the wall furthest from them.

"Zack, we— we won't hurt you," Carole pleaded, her lip trembling.

"Zack's not really inclined to trust anyone right now," Kurt said, and Carole immediately took a step back. Kurt was now watching them with glinting eyes and a half-formed smirk, and it sent a chill from Carole's spine down into her stomach.

She thought she'd hated Truman before. Now that he was staring her in the face and _smiling_ and she knew exactly what he was… It felt as thought termites were gnawing away at her breastbone and she wanted nothing more than to kill him, but it was still Kurt's body and Truman wasn't the only one there, so Carole tried to focus on the aspects of Kurt that she _could_ see.

She didn't see many.

"Truman, why was Zack acting like that?" Burt demanded. Carole could hear the rage trembling underneath his voice, like an earthquake working its way up to the planet's surface "Did you do something?"

"Me? To Zack? 'Course not."

Burt's fists clenched by his sides. "How the hell do you expect us to believe that?"

Kurt shrugged, crossing his arms as he leaned casually back against the padded wall. "I don't care if you do or don't. That's up to you."

"Where's Kurt?"

"Not here."

"I know that," Burt snapped. "Where is he?"

Kurt snorted. "No, he's _not here_," he grinned.

Carole froze, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the rage melt away from Burt's face.

"What did you just say?" Burt breathed.

Kurt's smile stretched. "I said…" he spoke slowly, mockingly, as if he thought Burt too stupid to understand even simple words. "He's _not here_."

"What did you do?"

The smile grew bigger as Kurt's teeth bared.

"_What did you do?!_" Burt's voice cracked and he jerked forward a step, looking as if he were about to grab Kurt and shake him until he coughed up the answers Burt was looking for.

Kurt chuckled as he saw the movement. "Go on," he said. "Hit me."

Burt blinked. Carole swallowed, her throat constricted around what felt like a billiard ball stuck in her windpipe.

"I know you want to," said Kurt, his tone light with amusement. "Go on. You'd just _love_ to hurt me. Especially after what I did to Kurt."

He licked his upper lip, slowly and deliberately, and Carole desperately fought the urge to vomit.

"What?" was the only thing Burt could manage.

Kurt laughed, throwing his head back against the wall as if he couldn't believe just how dense his own parents were.

"What did you do?" Burt choked out.

"I fucked him," Kurt stated simply, meeting Burt's gaze again with a startling nonchalance. "I fucked his cute little asshole 'til it bled, and then some. Your little boy is _very_ talented with his tongue. Least, he was once I taught him how to use it. He was quite the natural." Kurt swiped his tongue over his lip again, flashing Burt a wink.

Carole grabbed Burt's arm just as he lurched toward Kurt with clenched fists, swinging around to put herself between her husband and her stepson. "Burt…" she warned, a hand on his chest.

Burt didn't seem to hear her, staring in alarm as Kurt stepped away from the wall, closing the gap and leaning forward so that his face was barely six inches from Burt's.

"I toyed with your little boy for days and you can't even hit me," he hissed, almost disgusted. "That's _pathetic_."

"Where's Kurt?" Burt snarled. "I want to speak to Kurt."

"I already fucking told you; he's not here."

"Bring him back!"

"You don't get it," Kurt said, and he leaned slightly closer to speak in a low undertone. "_I killed him_."


	63. Swimming With A Raincoat

_Swimming With A Raincoat  
><em>

"What are we supposed to do?" Burt cried, pacing the floor of Dr. McManus' office and repeatedly rubbing at the back of his neck, like he was trying to keep the hairs from standing on end. "How the _hell_ are we supposed to get Kurt integrated if he's not even here to help the process?"

McManus chewed on one prong of his glasses, fiddling with a glass paperweight on his desk top. Carole was sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk, her fingers wringing into the fabric of her scarf.

"It'll be more difficult without Kurt here," McManus said, his features contorted into a deep frown. "We need to get one or two of the alters to work with us, but that's easier said than done."

Burt sent the doctor a glare. "Why would that even work? Truman's going around saying he killed Kurt and you think he'd _help _us?"

"I never said Truman," McManus replied calmly, understanding that a large percentage of Burt's rage stemmed from sheer frustration. "During our session on Thursday, I got a very strong feeling that Craig and Eleanor would both be cooperative."

"I don't care what it takes," Burt snapped. "I want that psychopath out of my son's head!"

"Wait, wait…" Carole interrupted, her voice wavering. "You said 'without Kurt'… Do— Does that mean he's—?" Her neck tensed as she swallowed. Burt stopped his pacing.

McManus paused, then released a sigh, placing his hands flat against his desk. "Unfortunately, it's—"

"No," Burt spat, shaking his head and resuming his pacing. "_No_. Do _not_ tell me—"

"Burt," McManus cut him off. "Please." He waited for Burt's jaw to clamp shut before continuing. "I'm sorry to say that it's uncommon but not impossible for one alter to eliminate another, and unfortunately that does include predominants."

Carole's already-watery eyes spilled over, and she raised a hand to her mouth.

"It is possible, however – hell, it's probable – that Truman is lying," McManus added. "Most likely Kurt has only been pushed into a place where it's a little harder for him to get out. But," he said before the glint of hope in Carole's eyes could get too bright, "you both need to prepare yourselves for the possibility that Kurt does not come back."

* * *

><p>"This is actually kinda nice," said Hiram as he sat down to dinner with Leroy and Sam. Rachel was spending the night at Sugar's house along with the rest of the girls (something about dying their hair for Regionals, Hiram wasn't entirely sure). "I can't remember the last time I had a meal with just guys."<p>

"That's only because you refuse to go out for drinks with any of the guys from your office," Leroy retorted as he dealt out servings of Chinese takeout.

"—which is only because you always refuse to come with me," Hiram fired back smoothly, making Sam chuckle. Leroy rolled his eyes with a grin. "So, Sam, what can you tell us about the set list for the competition tomorrow?"

Sam shrugged. "I'd totally tell you but Rachel would kill me if I spilled."

"Fair point."

Leroy shook his head, helping himself to the fried duck. "I love Rachel with all my heart, but that girl does need to learn to curb her enthusiasm once in a while."

Sam gave another shrug, his mouth half full. "She's fine," he said. "You get used to it pretty quickly."

"Still—"

Leroy was cut off as the phone rang shrilly from Hiram's study, surprising everyone at the table. The phone line there was rarely used after Hiram's working hours, and only his office and a few select clients had the number, as well as Leroy and Rachel in case of emergency.

"Excuse me," said Hiram, placing his napkin on the table as he stood and walked quickly to the study. "Hello?" he answered the phone on its fifth ring.

"_Hiram, it's Burt Hummel_."

Hiram's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, hello, how are you?"

Rather than reply, Burt skipped the small talk entirely and got right to the point. "_I found the guy._"

He didn't need to clarify, and Hiram lightly swung the door to his office shut (not missing the looks of confusion on Leroy and Sam's faces as he did so). "You found him? Where?"

"_We have his contact information in my wife's old address book,_" Burt explained, his voice tight. "_I want to do this right. I want to see him put away._"

"Well, you definitely called the right person," Hiram said, yanking a notepad and pen from his desk. "Give me the information. I'll get the police chief's help and we'll track him down."

Burt read him the address and phone number, then added, "_I don't know if it's accurate – the address book's over ten years old._"

"It's a place to start. We'll find him, and I'll make sure he rots in an eight-by-twelve cell."

* * *

><p>Burt was up to his elbows in the engine of a 1965 Chevy, trying unsuccessfully to disconnect the rusted-over carburetor and only half-listening to the tinny rock'n'roll coming from the portable radio on his worktable. It was technically not his responsibility to work in the shop any more, but with the storm of paranoia and medical bills and worry and <em>fear <em>surrounding Kurt right now, Burt needed something a little bit mindless for at least a couple hours.

"Come on, come on," he muttered, gritting his teeth as he pulled on the wrench as hard as he could, grunting when it finally gave. He pulled the engine piece out, grimacing as he brushed thick flakes of rust off onto his coveralls and dropped the junked carburetor onto the worktable.

As he grabbed his clipboard and scribbled out several equations to calculate the cost of this particular part replacement, a strange noise from behind him made him glance over his shoulder. "Hello?" he called. No one should've been there – it was the weekend so Randy and the rest of the guys had all gotten off work at noon, and by now it had to be at least five-thirty.

He shook his head and shrugged, turning back to his clipboard and managing to jot down a few more numbers before he heard the sound again – faint and difficult to hear above the music. Burt reached over and switched the radio off. "Hello?" he called again. "Finn? Carole?" Maybe one of them had brought him dinner.

There was silence except for the distant sounds of traffic passing by on the road outside. Burt waited, and finally heard the noise again. An odd shuffling sound, accented by what sounded like a pained whimper, almost like a dog.

"Hello?" Burt repeated, his heart skipping. "Who's there?"

Another whimper, and the scrape of a shoe against the cement floor. Burt dropped his clipboard onto the worktable, walking slowly in the direction of the sound. "Who's there?" he demanded.

His stomach flipped over when he realized that the whimper was in fact a single word.

"…_Dad_…"

Burt quickened his pace. "Kurt?" he called, his voice growing desperate. "Kurt, where are you?"

"_Dad—_" Kurt's voice was abruptly choked off, as if he'd suddenly stopped breathing.

"Kurt!" Burt shouted, peering behind a line of waiting cars. "Where are you?"

"_Dad!_"

Burt stopped short, whirling around. Kurt's voice had suddenly come from the opposite direction, from the other corner of the garage. "Kurt!"

"_H-Help me!_" Kurt cried, his voice trembling in pain as it dissolved into violent sobs. "_Daddy!_" he screamed.

Burt ran after him, his eyes wildly searching all the garage's nooks and crannies as Kurt's cries grew louder, reverberating between the cement floor and aluminum roof until it was so loud that Burt could barely hear anything else. "Kurt, _where are you_?!"

"Dad?"

The echoes vanished more quickly than they'd begun, and Burt whipped around when Kurt's voice seemed to come from right behind him.

Kurt was standing in the middle of the floor, doubled over and clutching his stomach, his face contorted in agony. "D-Dad—" he choked out, gasping. "It _hurts_—"

"Jesus, _Kurt_," Burt breathed, and rushed over just in time to stop Kurt from falling to his knees. Kurt's hands shook even as his fingers dug into his abdomen, as if he were trying to physically grab the pain and yank it out. Burt held his shoulders, keeping him upright. "Come on," he said. "We're going to the hospital."

Looping his arm around Kurt's waist, Burt hefted his weight and began to half-drag Kurt towards the door. Kurt's breath was beginning to come in short gasps, and Burt could tell the pain was getting worse. "Stay with me, kiddo," Burt urged as he shoved open the door, heading for his truck.

Somehow, he managed to get Kurt into the passenger seat. Kurt couldn't stand up straight and once he was in the car he only curled more tightly around himself, as if that would somehow alleviate the agonizing cramps. Burt jumped into the driver's seat and revved the engine, pealing out of the garage lot and onto the road.

"Dad, it hu-hurts," Kurt sobbed, one hand clutching his stomach and the other wrapped around the door handle, his knuckles and fingertips gone white.

"Stay with me, Kurt," Burt repeated loudly, swerving in and out of traffic. He had tunnel vision now: _Kurt. Hospital. Now. Kurt. Hospital. Now._

"I w-was looking f-for you," Kurt heaved, tears running freely down his cheeks. "You w-weren't there— _AH!_" His head jerked back and his body convulsed, his legs kicking slightly as if fighting off some invisible attacker.

"Kurt, talk to me," Burt pressed, his heart beating violently against his ribs like it was trying to escape. "Tell me what's happening. Keep your eyes open!"

Kurt flinched, his eyes fluttering. He was losing consciousness.

"_Stay awake!_" Burt ordered, panicking as his eyes jumped back and forth between the road ahead and his son writhing in the seat beside him.

"_Dad—!_" Kurt gasped, his eyes going wide. He shuddered as if he was about to vomit.

Burt jumped and swerved off the road when he glanced at Kurt and saw something in his mouth that hadn't been there a few moments before. He pulled the emergency brake and leaned over to grip Kurt's shoulders, nearly letting out a yell when he realized there were human fingers reaching out from Kurt's throat.

Kurt shuddered again, his chest heaving as he failed to breathe. The fingers reached forward and pulled themselves further out, followed by the rest of a hand, and Burt was unable to do anything other than stare helplessly.

Kurt's jaw was forced open as the hand was followed by a forearm, and then an elbow. The arm moved, reaching out from Kurt's mouth and looking for something to grab, and Burt struggled not to vomit.

As the arm grew longer, Kurt's eyes flickered shut and he lost consciousness. A moment later there was a sickening _crack_ as his jaw was broken; his body barely twitched in response. Burt shook Kurt's shoulder, desperately pleading with him to wake up.

The arm extending from Kurt's mouth whipped around and grabbed Burt by the throat.

He woke up in a cold sweat.


	64. Scream Without An Echo

_Scream Without An Echo  
><em>

Sunday morning dawned clear and sunny, the very beginnings of an early thaw. It wasn't quite March yet, though, so despite the slightly warmer weather the icicles lining the porch roof remained where they were. Carole brewed coffee and made a late breakfast for Finn and Burt, and then Finn left for McKinley in order to get ready for Regionals that afternoon. Burt had been very quiet all morning, even more so than the previous evening after getting home from the hospital. Carole wasn't entirely sure what to do, but she'd at least managed to convince him to come to the school and watch Finn perform with the rest of the club.

They parked in front of the school just after noon and headed inside along with the small crowd already accumulating and heading for the auditorium. Burt was antsy, wringing his hands as they walked and keeping his eyes downcast, clearly deep in thought. Carole reached over and wrapped her hand around his arm, giving him a nudge and what she hoped was a consoling smile.

After being stopped once or twice by a few people who recognized Burt and wanted to thank him for his work in Congress, he and Carole found their seats and settled in, letting the rest of the audience mill about and chatter as they waited for the show to begin. Carole clasped Burt's hand while she skimmed the playbill the ushers had distributed, feeling a lump rise in her throat when she saw the line beneath the New Directions' header reading _Dedicated to Kurt Hummel_.

A few minutes later, Hiram and Leroy entered the auditorium and took their seats in the row behind Burt and Carole. Carole waved at Leroy while Hiram leaned forward and said something to Burt a little too quietly to hear above the buzzing white noise in the room. Burt nodded, a frown on his face. "All right, thanks," he said, and Hiram clapped him once on the shoulder before leaning back.

Carole looked questioningly at her husband. "What was that about?"

Burt smiled tightly. "I'll tell you later."

The lights on the ceiling dimmed, and the audience members settled in, quieting down. Carole spotted Finn sitting with the rest of the club several rows back, but he was talking to Rachel so she turned forward again and waited for the announcer to introduce the judges.

The Warblers performed first, a lengthy Fleet Foxes a capella medley, and Carole stood and clapped with the rest of the room when they were finished. Most of her attention was diverted to Burt, who was clearly paying even less attention than she was and fidgeting slightly in his seat. She kept her hand over his throughout the duration of both the Warblers' performance and the second group, a madrigals group that probably belonged in a monastery and wasn't really worth the standing ovation they received.

Finally, the New Directions were announced, and Carole sat up a little straighter, focusing her attention on the stage as the lights over the audience darkened completely. It was quiet for several seconds, then a soft blue light fell down across the stage, illuminating Rachel and Mercedes. They stood apart, facing slightly away from each other, and Carole couldn't help but think that Kurt would have appreciated their costumes – black dresses down to the knee, with a luminescent blue X crossing up over the bodice from the waist and an equally blue widening stripe sweeping down across the skirt from the hip. Both Rachel and Mercedes bore blue streaks in their hair to match, and it glowed against the light.

Rachel opened her mouth, and Carole's hand involuntarily tightened around Burt's as she began to sing, her voice unaccompanied by any instruments.

"_Take off your shoes now. You've come a long way – you've walked all these miles and now you're in the right place._ _This is your party, and everyone came… Everyone's smiling and singing your name._"

Mercedes took over then, her rich vocals soaring out over the audience. "_And the nightmares and monsters – your biggest fears – they seem lightyears away; no, they won't find you here._"

Slowly, a single guitar from the back of the stage joined them, harmonizing with a few notes left vibrating through the air in the wake of Mercedes' voice. Carole held her breath, and the girls opened their mouths again, joining together for the chorus.

"_I'll hold your head, my dear… make sure no one's gonna wake you. Tomorrow you'll still be here, no matter where your dreams will take you…_"

Rachel reached over and held Mercedes' hand as Mercedes took up the vocals on her own again, supported by the guitar's strings. "_And you realize… All the falls and flights, all the sleepless nights, all the smiles and sighs… They brought you here. They only brought you home._"

Carole swallowed, leaning against Burt as a piano joined the guitar, still soft but growing stronger.

"_Put down the suitcase,_" sang Rachel. "_This weapon of yours; the struggle is over. You don't need it no more… You can't remember Lonely, and you forgot about Bored – nothing's the same since you walked through this door._"

Carole could see Mercedes' fingers tighten around Rachel's. "_And this roof is a blanket that's keeping you warm, inside the silence and after the storm…_"

Their voices wrapped around each other, weaving in and out of the melody as the chorus began again.

"_I'll hold your head, my dear… make sure no one's gonna wake you._"

Carole watched as the other girls in the group, all bearing identical dresses and streaks in their hair, filed onstage, lining up behind Rachel and Mercedes and harmonizing as the music swelled behind the words.

"_Tomorrow, you'll still be here, no matter where your dreams will take you._

Mercedes took a deep breath.

"_And you understand,_" she belted out, and Rachel echoed a step behind. "_This never-ending dance, this final fading sense – now it all makes sense. It brought you here; it only brought you home._"

As the girls' voiced died away, so did the piano and guitar, and Rachel and Mercedes were once again left to sing alone.

"_Take off your shoes now. You've come a long way; walked all these miles and now… you're in the right place…_"

Carole let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, and the light faded.

* * *

><p>Sebastian had known that the Warblers would lose this competition from the moment he saw the playbill. If the New Directions were dedicating their performance to Kurt, then there was little room for doubt that whatever they chose to do onstage would be anything less than raw. And even without the crazy emotional rollercoaster Sebastian was sure most of them were going through in light of Kurt's illness, the group had been known for winning based on heart than skill right from the start. This final push was really all it took to secure first place, and as the New Directions girls left the stage and the boys appeared, Sebastian sat back in his chair and knew he was right.<p>

Strangely, he thought he could be okay with that.

A high, sharp and rough guitar riff cut through his train of thought and a blue spotlight stabbed through the dark onstage, shining down to the left and picking Finn out from the ensemble of boys standing rigidly with their heads down. As soon as the spotlight found him, Finn's head snapped up and Sebastian blinked in surprise.

"_Yeah, here we go for the hundredth time, hand grenade pins in every line – throw 'em up and let something shine, going out of my goddamn mind!_"

While the girls' outfits had been edgy, the boys were more subtly so. Dressed completely in black with no ties or suspenders to highlight, their hair was spiked up slightly and the top button on each of their shirts left open. It was almost intimidating.

Another spotlight clanked on, illuminating Artie in his wheelchair. His head snapped up like a windup toy. "_Filthy mouth! No excuse! Find a new place to hang this noose! String me up from atop these roofs! Knot it tight so I won't get loose!_"

Heads still down, the rest of the boys in unison lifted their hands and clapped in time with the music as a third spotlight lit up, this time on Santana, who was the only girl onstage and standing directly in the center. "_Truth is, you can stop and stare, run myself out and no one cares. Dug the trench out and laid down there with a shovel up out of reach somewhere._" She edged forward, to the edge of the stage, still clapping her hands as a trace of rage seeped into her voice. "_Yeah, someone pour it in – make it a dirt dance floor again. Say your prayers and stomp it out, when they bring that chorus in!_"

Santana abruptly sprung backwards as the entire stage burst into blue light, the boys weaving a semi-complex pattern of movement across the stage as they rapidly rearranged, accented by jerky, angry moves that fell somewhere between funk and hip-hop. Sebastian couldn't help but be impressed as Santana spun round in a sort of pirouette, falling backwards into Sam's arms as Finn and Artie shouted the chorus.

"_I bleed it out, digging deeper just to throw it away! I bleed it out, digging deeper just to throw it away!_"

"_Go, go, stop the show!_" Puck cut in, breaking out of the formation to take center stage. "_Choppy words and a sloppy flow! Shotgun opera lock and load, cock it back and then watch it go!_"

Sam appeared from behind him and Puck jumped back into the foray. "_Mama, help me, I've been cursed! Death is rolling in every verse! Candy paint on his brand new hearse – can't contain him, he knows he works!_"

Finally, Blaine appeared, picking up where Sam had left off. "_God, this hurts – I won't lie. Doesn't matter how hard I try; half the words don't mean a thing and I know that I won't be satisfied, so why try ignoring him? Make it a dirt dance floor again! Say my prayers and stomp it out when they bring that chorus in!_"

Sebastian frowned, wondering exactly how much contact Blaine had had with Kurt since… well, he wasn't sure. He didn't know when all of this had started, for Blaine or for Kurt. Or Finn, for that matter. For a brief moment Sebastian was grateful he had no siblings – all they ever seemed to be good for was family drama and heartbreak, and that was with siblings who weren't locked in a mental hospital.

Finn was now repeating the chorus, alone this time. The entire audience – including Sebastian, though he was paying closer attention to the performers' faces than the rest of them – was now on their feet, clapping in time with the boys onstage. Sebastian glanced around at the other spectators. None of them had any idea where this only somewhat subtle display of rage was coming from, and Sebastian was pretty sure that most of them thought the New Directions were just giving a good show. They had no idea how deep this ran.

Yes, the Warblers were definitely going to lose.

* * *

><p>Dr. McManus didn't often come in to work on Sundays (since even the patients had the day off from group therapies and were pretty much allowed to do what they wanted within the walls of their wards), but it was rare he had a patient with such a severe problem as Kurt. At this point Kurt had spent the duration of three days in and out of the solitary room, and McManus was beginning to toy with the idea of a more potent medication – one that would sedate Kurt to the point where not even his alters would want to lash out.<p>

McManus didn't like the idea, but it could be necessary to force Kurt's stress levels below their current mark, at least for a week or so in order to allow his brain to come down from the rapid switching. It would be even harder to bring Kurt back if he were medicated, but if he were able to restore a sort of balance using medication and try to access Kurt after things inside his head had calmed down, then it could definitely be worth a shot. Otherwise, if he _didn't_ calm down, they were looking at a transfer to a more specialized clinic.

Today, McManus arrived at the solitary room with his tape recorder in his hand to find, rather than Truman or Zack (who had been the most frequent visitors in the past several days), Craig pacing the room like an animal locked in a cage.

To McManus' surprise, Kurt spoke before the doctor had a chance.

"Doc, we got a problem."

McManus' eyebrows shot up, and he pressed the record button. Not only was the non-aggressive tone to Kurt's voice surprising, but also the fact that Craig seemed to be approaching McManus for help. "What kind of problem?"

"That fucker Truman did something. I can't find them."

McManus blinked. While it was unquestionably Craig speaking, Kurt's body language – fidgeting, pulling at his fingers, pacing – was verging on panic.

"Can't find who?"

"Kurt, Tyler, and Eleanor," Kurt rushed, turning and raking a hand through his short hair. "He did something to Zack, too. The kid won't stop screaming."

McManus' eyes widened. This was the first he'd heard of Tyler or Eleanor having gone missing, though neither of them had been seen since before Kurt's flashback episodes on Thursday. The statement regarding Zack was less surprising considering how he'd been acting over the past several days.

"Where do you think they went?"

"I don't know, you fucking moron!" Kurt spat, throwing his hands up. "If I had any idea, I'd find them!"

"What makes you think Truman's responsible?"

"Look, he just _is_, okay? We've got to find them first and then we can kick the shit out of that faggot psycho."

"Can I talk to Truman?" McManus requested.

Kurt's head whipped round to glare at him. "Ellie, Tyler, and _my kid_ are fucking missing and you want to just _talk_?"

McManus raised his hands placatingly. "I just want to see if Truman will tell me what he did."

Kurt blinked, then grinned. "I've done a lot of things," he sneered.

Making a mental note of the almost instantaneous transition, McManus leaned back against the wall by the door, resting his hands in his pockets. "Truman, maybe you can explain to me why exactly you'd want to kill Kurt."

Kurt shrugged, taking a seat on the floor, leaning on the wall with his legs apart and his elbows relaxed on his knees. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, he owns the body you live in. On one hand, you might want to hurt him so that you could have control – that's perfectly understandable. But then on the flipside, eliminating him would pose the risk of Kurt or one of the others retaliating and eliminating you instead."

Kurt yawned, not even looking in McManus' direction and already bored by the conversation. "So what's your point?"

"Why take that risk? Seems pretty dangerous to me."

Another shrug. "It's not like any of them can really fight back. Not much, anyway."

McManus cocked his head to the side. "Why is that?"

Kurt snorted. "They're fucking _weak_. And Kurt was the worst. He didn't even _try_ to defend himself. At least Eleanor gave me a couple scratches when I killed her. Kurt was just a pussy. He bled a_ lot_, though."

McManus was careful not to look too shocked at Truman's nonchalance, though his heart sank. Eleanor, if she was in fact gone, had been the only other potential alter to work with besides Craig. "What about Tyler?" he asked.

Kurt rolled his eyes, now annoyed. "Now there's a useless little twink. He didn't put up a fight either. Just cried, cried, _cried_." He flapped a hand and shook his head. "Fucking pathetic."

"And Zack?" McManus questioned. "Craig seems to think you attacked him."

"I didn't _attack _him," Kurt drawled, rolling his eyes again. "Craig's definition of 'attack' is going anywhere within five feet of him."

"Then what did you do?"

A wide grin spread over Kurt's face, and he ran a finger over his lip.

"Nothing Zack hasn't seen before."

* * *

><p>As the Troubletones took up their places onstage, Santana tried to even her breathing, still slightly winded from the Linkin Park number. She was glad Brittany was singing lead with this one; otherwise she'd be gasping for air at the end of every line.<p>

Launching into the harmonization and choreography in unison with the other girls, Santana forced herself to smile as she sang. It was hard to switch the mood all of a sudden, but performers had to do the tougher acts if it was what would please the audience (or at least, that's what Rachel had said during rehearsals… Santana needed to stop listening to her).

Brittany danced in front of Santana, mirroring the movements of the ensemble while she sang. "_I just wanna be okay, be okay, be okay – I just wanna be okay today! I just wanna feel today, feel today, feel today – I just wanna feel something today!_"

For Santana, the hardest thing regarding the entire situation surrounding Kurt was actually Brittany. The last thing she wanted to do was make Brittany upset by having to explain what exactly was going on inside the head of her favorite unicorn, so Santana was putting a lot of effort into keeping Brittany in the dark. Though… she had a feeling that was wearing thin and Britt was getting close to realizing that Kurt was not, in fact, on a quest with a dragon.

"_Open me up and you will see,_" Santana chimed in with the rest of the girls, grasping Brittany's hands in a mimic of a music-box waltz. "_I'm a gallery of broken hearts – I'm beyond repair, let me be… And give me back my broken parts._"

Santana spun Brittany under her arm as she took up the lead again. "_I just wanna know today, know today, know today – I just wanna know something today… I just wanna know today, know today, know today – know that maybe I will be okay…_"

The chorus kicked in again, and Santana pushed all thoughts of Kurt out of her mind. She'd deal with the dragon later.

* * *

><p>Lima Police Chief Rick Chevalier hadn't been expecting a call from Hiram on a Sunday morning, asking him to contact the police department in another state. Chevalier had worked with Hiram off-and-on for twenty years – never before had Hiram worked on a Sunday, and this was the second time he'd done so for the same case.<p>

That tidbit of info there was the real reason Chevalier came in to the station that day. If Hiram had sacrificed not just one Sunday but _two_, then whatever it was had to be extremely important.

So now Chevalier was sitting at his desk, the phone in his hand as he waited for someone on the other end to pick up. _Not likely_, he grumbled silently. _Freaking Sundays_.

"_Pittsburgh Police Department_."

"Hi, can you patch me through to someone who could help me trace a Pittsburgh address?"

"_What do you need this for, sir?_"

"Tracking down a potential pedophile."

There was a pause on the other end. The P-word always threw people off – even cops. "_You could try the sex offender registry._"

"I didn't say he was a sex offender, I said he was a pedophile," Chevalier said patiently. "Look, I'm the chief of police over here in Lima, Ohio, and I need to find this guy. I could spend hours combing through the offender registry in the hopes that he's actually registered, or you could help me track his address."

"_...I'll patch you through._"

* * *

><p>"You're doing great," whispered Rachel to Finn as the group assumed the starting positions for their final number, each boy partnered with a girl and the audience waiting. Finn squeezed her hand and the boys took their cue, humming a low tune in harmony as the girls circled around them.<p>

"_Truth of the matter is, I'm complicated_," Blaine sang from the opposite side of the stage, spinning Tina back into his arm before letting her go again. "_You're as straight as they come. You go about your day, baby, while I hide from the sun._"

Finn cut in then, taking up the lead. "_It's better if you don't understand, 'cause you won't know what it's like until you try…_"

At the exact same moment, each person onstage opened their mouth and let the song swell and take on a shape of its own, spinning along the stage floor along with them. "_And I… I'll be waiting on the other side, and you… All you've gotta do is cross the line. I could wait a whole lifetime – but you've just gotta decide. Oh, I… I'll be waiting on the other side._"

As the chorus died away, the girls dipped to the floor and leapt back up, gripping the boys' hands, and Finn resumed the lead.

"_If they say life's a dream, call this insomnia – cause this ain't Wonderland, and it damn sure ain't Narnia._" Rachel pulled back on Finn's arm before spinning back against his chest. "_And once you cross the line, you can't change your mind. Yeah, I'm a monster, but I'm no Frankenstein._"

Blaine stole the lead once more, rapidly circling around Tina before turning his back and allowing her to wrap her arms around him from behind. "_And quite frankly, I've been feeling insane in between my eyes – I really can't explain what I feel inside. If you knew what I was, you would run and hide!_"

Finn's stomach twisted as he and Rachel mirrored Blaine and Tina's moves. He'd been trying to fight off any thoughts of his stepbrother during the performance, but now that he could see his mom and Burt watching in the audience it was hard to focus.

"_Many have tried to go into the night, cross over the line and come back alive, but that's the price we pay when we're living on the other side!_"

He didn't know when he would next see Kurt. As far as he knew, Kurt's treatment had been going fine for the past week, but it was difficult to think of Kurt-his-stepbrother and not Kurt-lying-on-top-of-him-doing-things, and Finn wasn't sure when that awful feeling would finally go away.

He took a deep breath and joined the others for the chorus, spinning Rachel under his arm. "_And I… I'll be waiting on the other side, and you… All you've gotta do is cross the line. I could wait a whole lifetime – but you've just gotta decide._"

Finn supposed that maybe he owed at least one visit to Kurt, just because it technically hadn't been Kurt who had snuck into Finn's room that night a week ago, and because they were brothers, but he wasn't ready to make that promise.

"_Oh, I… I'll be waiting on the other side._"

* * *

><p>"<em>Kurt. Wake up.<em>"

"_Kurt?_"

"_Dammit, Kurt, get your ass up!_"

"_Is he dead?_"

"_Shut up, of course not._"

"_Why isn't he waking up?_"

"_Because he's being an ASSHOLE, that's why!_"

A sharp pain exploded in Kurt's side and he yelped, rolling over and coughing as his eyes flew open.

"See? I told you. Kicking always works."

Looking up, Kurt saw Eleanor and Tyler standing over him. Tyler was as usual clutching Raleigh to his chest, but Kurt's eyes widened when he saw the horrific bruises on Eleanor's face, neck, and arms. Tyler's shirt was torn and there was blood on it, but he didn't seem to be hurt.

Kurt pulled himself to his feet. "God, are you okay? What happened?" he asked, peering closely at the black-and-blue patch of skin covering Eleanor's right eye and most of her cheek. The equally dark bruises on her neck were shaped suspiciously like human fingers.

"Fucking Truman, that's what."

"He came after us," Tyler said softly, squeezing Raleigh.

"But… why?"

"Fuck if I know," Eleanor grimaced, batting Kurt's hand away.

Tyler frowned at her. "Don't use that word. It's not nice."

Eleanor rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.

And then, Kurt felt a horrible, painful lurch in his stomach as he realized for the first time that they were not at the playground. They were standing on a thick carpet of pine needles that crunched under their feet, and trees towered overhead. There was no open sky, no direct sunlight, nor any sign of the fields surrounding the playground. They were in a forest, and Kurt couldn't see anything distinguishing one tree from the next.

"Guys… where are we?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The songs used in this chapter are as follows:**

**_July _–__ Boy  
><em>Bleed It Out <em>–<em> _Linkin Park  
><em>Be Okay <em>–<em> _Ingrid Michaelson  
><em>The Other Side<em> _–_ Bruno Mars.**


	65. If I Were Brave

_If I Were Brave  
><em>

The kitchen on Monday morning was filled with the smell of pancake batter and coffee as Carole stood over the stove. There was bright, unbroken sunlight streaming in through the windows, giving the air a cool and crisp feel. Carole was starting to feel a little better now that she could tell spring was on its way, but it was still a couple months off and not quite warm enough for the snow to melt yet.

Finn staggered into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and half asleep. "Mornin'," he yawned, plopping down at the table.

Carole smiled. "Good morning, Mr. Show Choir Champion," she said, leaning over to kiss him on the top of his head.

Finn grinned sheepishly. "It was just Regionals, Mom. There's still Nationals coming up."

"And you'll win that one too," she replied smoothly, squeezing his shoulder. "Want some pancakes?"

"Hell yes," Finn said, then yawned again. "Did Burt already leave for work?"

"Yeah, he had to go in early," she answered as she returned to the stove and flipped a few pancakes onto a plate for Finn. "With all the stuff going on with Kurt, he's been stretched pretty thin. He's really behind."

"Not enough to lose his job, though, right?" Finn asked as she placed his plate in front of him.

Carole shook her head, sinking into the seat opposite him with a mug of coffee in her hands. "No, not yet. We do have to be careful about that, though. We can't lose Burt's health benefits."

"I thought you got really good insurance too," Finn said through a mouthful of pancakes and maple syrup.

"No, I do, but it's not enough to cover Kurt's medical expenses by itself and keep the three of us safe as well."

"Oh." Finn mulled this over for several seconds while he chewed. "Hey, how was the visit with Kurt on Saturday? Things were so busy at school yesterday that I forgot to ask."

Carole sipped her coffee, forcing a small smile. "It was fine," she said.

"Is he okay?"

She nodded, holding her coffee mug under her nose. "He's fine."

* * *

><p>Tyler didn't like what was happening, partly because he couldn't understand <em>why<em> it was happening and partly because he hated it when the others were mad. The unfamiliar woods didn't help, either. He missed the playground and wanted to go back, but he didn't know the way. So he held Raleigh tightly against his chest and waited for Kurt to tell him what to do.

Kurt, however, almost seemed to have forgotten that Tyler and Eleanor were there and instead was shouting for help to anyone who might hear him, growing more and more frustrated by the minute. Tyler didn't think yelling for help would be much use, but he didn't say anything.

Eleanor, on the other hand, had the same opinion and was perfectly willing to say as much. "Who exactly do you think is going to hear you, Kurt?" she said with an eyeroll and an exasperated sigh, standing next to Tyler with her arms crossed and a frown turned lopsided by the swollen bruises on her face.

"Have you got a better idea?" Kurt snapped. "Because I'd just _love_ to hear it."

"Yeah, actually, I do. We stop standing around like fucking idiots and we go back."

"And how do you suggest we do that, Eleanor?" Kurt cried, throwing up his hands. "Huh? I'm not exactly spotting a trail of breadcrumbs!"

Tyler flinched and stepped back as Eleanor's voice rose, her fists clenching in rage. "Would you stop whining and feeling sorry for yourself? Jesus! Just pick a direction and start walking! It's _your_ head! You should know the fucking layout!"

"_Well, I don't!_ That is my _entire_ problem!" Kurt shouted, making Tyler jump. Feeling a lump rise in his throat, Tyler hugged Raleigh tighter and hoped that Kurt and Eleanor would stop fighting.

"I have no idea where to go or what to do because _all _of you are keeping it from me!" Kurt continued, growing louder and angrier with every word. "How can you expect me to know how to fight this when all you do is _block_ me?"

"Stop it," Tyler said softly, hiding his face in the soft comforting cloth of Raleigh's belly. His head hurt and it was getting worse, but Eleanor wasn't finished.

"I've _never_ tried to block you, you moron! All _you_ have ever done is wallow in self-pity and whine about how much your life sucks! At least you have a body, Kurt! People know who you are!"

"Stop it," Tyler repeated, but neither Kurt nor Eleanor heard him.

"Yeah, they all know exactly who I am, and they're _terrified _of it!" Kurt's voice cracked.

Eleanor rolled her eyes again and Tyler's head pounded. He squeezed his eyes shut as Eleanor yelled back.

"God, you are so fucking _stupid!_ They're scared of _me!_"

"Stop yelling!" Tyler cried, clapping his hands over his ears, but Eleanor kept going.

"They're scared of me, and Craig, and Truman, and Robbie, and Schism, and hell, even Zack and Tyler! No one has_ ever _been afraid of you, Kurt! You're _LUCKY!_"

"SHUT UP!" Tyler screamed.

Both of them froze, startled by Tyler's outburst. He sniffed, fighting tears with his hands still over his ears.

"Stop _yelling_," he begged. "It's not helping and it hurts."

Neither of them said anything for a long time, and then Kurt sighed, casting a hesitant glance at Eleanor. "Come on," he said, sounding tired more than anything else. "Let's try to head back." He turned and started walking, his shoulders hanging lower than normal.

Tyler took a deep breath, the pain in his head finally subsiding, then tucked Raleigh into the crook of his elbow and ran after Kurt. Eleanor crossed her arms and followed.

* * *

><p>Carole couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this exhausted. Even when she'd been struggling as a single parent with two jobs and a pre-adolescent son hell-bent on getting into trouble, all of her problems had been tangible and, compared to now, easy to deal with. She still had her fair share of financial worries, but now it was compounded by trying to manage Kurt's alters, making sure Burt took care of himself, and keeping a close eye on Finn. She was tired down to her bones.<p>

So, it was a minor relief whenever she managed to get out and do regular, everyday, non-stressful things. Coming home from shopping on Monday afternoon, Carole felt slightly better as she toted the groceries into the house, letting out a sigh as she hung her hat and coat on the rack by the door. Finn walked into the kitchen then, and she smiled.

"Hi, sweetie," she said as she dumped a bag of apples into the fruit bowl on the counter. "What do you want for dinner?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Finn demanded sharply, and Carole stopped what she was doing.

"…What?" was the only response that came to mind.

Finn's glare was half furious, half astonished. "That Kurt might be _dead_?" he said. "That Truman's saying he killed him? That Truman is the same freaking person who made Kurt split? _Any_ of this ringing a bell?!"

Carole swallowed, her lungs compressing inside her chest. "Finn… I just—"

"Burt told me everything! Why would you lie about something like that?" Finn cried, his voice rising. Burt came in, looking furtively back and forth between his wife and stepson.

"I-I didn't want you to worry," Carole stammered, knowing she had no defense. Burt stood to the side, unsure of how to mediate. It wasn't Burt's fault; they had agreed to tell Finn everything after Regionals. Carole just hadn't expected it to be immediately after. "I wanted you t-to have some time to try to feel better and do n-normal teenager things and not—"

"Mom, we had a _rule!_" Finn shouted, abruptly hoarse. "After we found out about Kurt, we said no secrets! Why the hell wouldn't you tell me?"

Carole was crying now, wringing her hands. "A-After what happened with you and Truman, I th-thought that—"

"He's my_ brother_, Mom! I shouldn't be the last one to find out!"

"I didn't want you to worry…"

"_I'M WORRIED!_" Finn screamed, and Carole flinched. "I'm freaking _terrified!_"

Burt finally stepped in, reaching up to put a hand on Finn's arm. "Finn, your mom just— Finn! Finn, stop!"

Finn jerked his arm away from Burt and stormed out through the front door, slamming it shut behind him and not bothering to grab a coat on his way out. A moment later, they heard the engine of his truck rev and pull out of the driveway.

* * *

><p>The hallways of McKinley were silent as Blaine walked down the corridor towards the weight room. It was nearing six-thirty and he was probably the only person at school save for the janitor, but he still made sure to walk quietly in case a teacher or two had stayed to work late. He hated having to tiptoe around – not just at school but at home as well. His father had finally calmed down somewhat and was no longer prompting "discussions" of Blaine's "recklessness" any time they were in the same room, but Blaine still felt the need to drive his fist through a wall every time his father opened his mouth, so he'd taken to sneaking into the school after hours in addition to spending his study hall periods in the weight room with the boxing bag. In any case, it was better than accidentally snapping at anyone who asked him the time of day.<p>

Today, though, Blaine was startled to hear the sound of leather smacking leather as he approached the weight room door – someone was already there. Hesitating for a couple seconds, Blaine pushed the door open and leaned in, not sure if he wanted to disturb whoever had gotten there before him. His eyebrows shot up when he saw that it was Finn at the boxing bag.

The hinges of the door creaked and Finn turned around, his forehead beaded with sweat. He was wearing the same clothes as he'd worn during school earlier that day – whatever had prompted Finn to come, he hadn't bothered to change.

"What are you doing here?" Finn asked, caught off-guard and a little out of breath. "How'd you get in?"

Blaine blinked, his hands hanging in the pockets of his hoodie. "I could ask you the same thing."

"The football team's allowed to use the weight room until eight," Finn answered. "You?"

"The janitor leaves the back door to the cafeteria open so he can smoke," Blaine replied.

Finn laughed, a hoarse and hollow chuckle that made the hairs on Blaine's arms prickle. "How do you even know that?" Finn muttered.

Blaine shrugged. He could explain that attending a boarding school for a year and a half tended to train kids to find discreet ways to break the rules, but Blaine had a feeling that Finn really didn't give a crap.

Finn sniffed and tugged on the Velcro straps of his boxing gloves, wiping his forehead on his arm.

"I-I can leave if you want," Blaine said.

Finn shook his head, but he wasn't looking at Blaine. "No, you can stay. It's fine; I don't mind."

"Okay." Blaine slung his backpack onto the floor by the basketball rack and pulled out his own gloves as Finn turned back to the punching bag. Finn's form was completely off – his feet were in the wrong places and he wasn't standing at the right angle – but Blaine couldn't quite tell if it mattered to him. He tugged the glove straps tight around his wrists and approached the bag hanging next to Finn's. "Have you ever done boxing before?" he asked.

Finn glanced at him like he'd already forgotten Blaine was there. "Oh, uh… no." He gave a small shrug. "I just kind of wanted to hit something."

Blaine nodded. "I get it."

The two boys fell into an oddly comforting silence broken only by the sound of their gloves pounding against the bags again and again. Despite the fact that they weren't speaking or even paying attention to each other, Blaine was relieved that there was someone else who seemed to share his frustration.

Of course, the tiny little voice in Blaine's head reminded him, whatever emotional turmoil Blaine may be going through where Kurt was concerned, Finn was probably much worse off. Blaine fought off a shudder at the memory of Tyler's cries and Eleanor's angry screams and how Kurt's face had transformed in front of Blaine's eyes.

Maybe it was better that Kurt had ended things between them. Blaine wasn't sure he wanted to know what went on in the Hudson-Hummel house on a regular basis.

Slowly but surely, Blaine felt the tension leaving his shoulders and allowing his muscles to unknot themselves. Sweat was beginning to collect between his shoulder blades and at the base of his spine, his hair falling out of place. He was so concentrated on driving his fists into the bag as hard as he could that when a strangled hiccough came from Finn's direction, Blaine had to pause what he was doing to make sure he hadn't been hearing things.

Finn seemed to have worn himself out – his punches had grown weaker and even sloppier. His shoulders were shaking slightly, as if he were having trouble breathing. Blaine realized with a start that there were tear tracks on Finn's face, and from the look of things Finn had been crying for quite awhile.

And, like the crappy friend he'd become over the past couple of months, Blaine hadn't noticed until now.

"Are – are you okay?" Blaine asked lamely. It was probably the stupidest question Blaine could have asked at that particular moment, but Finn didn't give any indication that he thought so.

Instead, Finn let out a sort of half-sigh, his arms falling to his sides as he closed his eyes for a second. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, then swallowed and removed his gloves, dropping them onto the designated shelf by the wall.

"I'll see you in classes tomorrow," he said in the most disturbingly flat voice Blaine had ever heard, then strode out of the room, leaving behind only the creak of the punching bag swinging slowly back and forth.


	66. Laws Of Motion

_Laws Of Motion  
><em>

McManus chewed on the end of his pen as he studied Kurt, who was sitting half-curled on the couch in McManus' office. Kurt's knees were pulled up to his chest and his shoulders were trembling almost imperceptibly. He was humming shakily under his breath, staring into space as if he were completely unaware of his surroundings or the fact that McManus was there.

Making sure his handheld recorder was in fact recording, McManus finally breached the quiet. "Zack, can you tell me what's making you so scared?"

Kurt turned his head away. "No."

"Why not?"

"H-he'll hurt me." Kurt's entire body shuddered for a moment.

"Who will?"

"The bad man," Kurt whispered. Another shudder. "He's here."

"Are you talking about Truman?" McManus asked.

Kurt flinched and clapped his hands over his ears. "Shh! Sh!"

McManus leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Zack, you aren't in any danger here. It's okay."

Kurt shook his head vehemently, his eyes squeezing shut. "No, no," he muttered. "He killed them. He's going to kill me too." A sob jumped from his throat. "Row, row, row your boat…"

"Zack…" McManus pressed. "Do you want to get rid of the bad man?"

Kurt flinched again. "Merrily, merrily, merrily—"

"Zack," McManus prodded gently. "Can you open your eyes for me? It's okay."

Kurt stopped singing, but kept his eyes shut and his hands over his ears as he strained to pull air into his chest. "I don't want to die…" he sobbed through clenched teeth.

"I won't let you. I'll protect you."

Finally, Kurt's eyes opened, watering as he slowly looked over to the doctor.

"You can't," he choked out.

Then his hands dropped and his lips pulled back into a cold grin. "Sorry, Doc, I need Zack for something else," he smirked.

"Mind telling me what?" McManus requested, refusing to react outwardly to Truman's sudden appearance.

"Nope. That would ruin the surprise." Kurt gave a smug wink.

"Where's Kurt?"

"Dead," said Robbie's voice, Truman's smirk melting away.

"How do you know?"

"I saw Truman do it."

"And you didn't try to stop him?"

Kurt sent a scathing glare in McManus' direction. "Hey, I just made sure he didn't kill Zack. I could only protect one of them and Zack's the youngest." He leaned back and crossed his arms in annoyance. "I thought the others could take care of themselves."

"Eleanor and Tyler are dead too?"

Kurt shrugged, studying the wallpaper behind the couch a little too intently.

McManus tried a different approach. "Maybe you can tell me why Zack's so upset."

Another shrug. "He says it's a secret for him and Truman."

"You don't have any theories?"

"Would you fuck off?"

McManus cocked his head to the side in mild surprise. "Why?" he asked. "What's making _you _upset?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "I'm not upset, asshole, I just want you to back off. You're giving me a fucking headache."

McManus sighed. As stable as Robbie was (compared to the other alters, at least), McManus knew he wouldn't get anything useful from him. Not if he was right and Robbie was in fact Kurt's peacekeeper.

"Do you think it would be possible for me to speak with Craig now?"

Kurt grimaced. "What the fuck do you want with him?"

"I'd just like to speak with him."

"Well, if he wants to come out, he'll come out. It's not up to me."

McManus ran a hand through his thinning hair. He wasn't going to accomplish anything while Robbie was in control; that much was clear. "Okay," he said. "I guess our time's up for today, then." He reached over and switched off the recorder. "I'll take you back to the ward."

"What, no padded cell?"

"Not unless you try to punch Dustin again."

"Oh, come on. He wouldn't shut the hell up. _Someone_ had to make him."

"Well, the next time you feel like shutting him up, call one of the orderlies. They might do it for you if you ask nicely."

Kurt snorted on his way out the door.

* * *

><p>Tuesday morning found Burt in his office, working hard to catch up on all of his political responsibilities. Linus was working just as hard bringing coffee, faxing, photocopying, proofreading, and just generally keeping Burt on track. As the clock was nearing eleven-thirty, however, Linus came in with a fresh mug of coffee and informed Burt that there was a Hiram Berry there to see him.<p>

Burt quickly put the last few touches on the bill he was drafting for that week's House sitting, then handed the folio to Linus. "Okay, send him in, and can you proofread that before you fax it to Senator Jamison? I might've rushed it a little."

"No problem," Linus said, then whisked out of the room. A moment later, the door opened again and Hiram entered.

"What's going on?" Burt asked, skipping the hi-how-are-you's as Hiram took a seat across from the desk. "Did you find anything?"

Hiram paused before speaking.

"We found _him_," he said.

Burt froze, feeling his heart skip ahead several beats. "You— Where is he?"

"At the moment he's in a holding cell in Toledo," Hiram replied. "Turns out the address you gave me was for his mother's house in Pittsburgh; she died years ago but his sister still lives there and she told us where he was. According to the officer who spoke with her, she didn't sound all that surprised we were looking for him."

Burt sat back in his chair, feeling winded. "God…" he breathed.

"Burt…" Hiram started, his voice tight. "Kurt wasn't the only one."

Burt's heart skipped a second time.

"The Toledo police department is still searching John Truman's apartment, but so far they've found evidence of at least twenty other kids from just the past ten years."

Burt suddenly had a very strong urge to vomit. He swallowed. "He… he kept _records_—?"

Hiram nodded.

"Jesus Christ."

"The police are going to track the kids down and contact their families. It's looking like an open-and-shut case, so it probably won't go to court, but if it does I need to know if you're willing to testify."

Burt blinked, confused. "Why would it go to court? What's there to argue?"

Hiram shifted in his seat, his face solemn. "If he lawyers up, they'll probably try to prove that he's mentally ill."

"Wouldn't surprise me," Burt muttered.

Hiram shook his head. "No, we _want_ him to be proved sane. If he's sane, he's looking at thirty years to life, depending on what else we can pin him with."

"And if he's sick?"

"He'll go through several years of intensive therapy in a home for the criminally insane, jump through a few hoops, swear to God he's cured, and then he's back in the general population within a decade."

Burt's eyes widened, his frown deepening as a horde of beetles squirmed against the walls of his stomach. "They'd let that happen?"

"If he finds a smart lawyer who's willing to represent him, there's an upsetting number of loopholes in the judicial system he could worm through." Hiram removed his glasses and rubbed a hand over his forehead. "In any case, I'll be fighting tooth and nail to be first chair for prosecution if it goes to trial."

Burt's eyebrows shot up. "Can I ask why?" he said, trying to ignore the bugs crawling through his abdomen. "Not that I don't want you prosecuting the son of a bitch – 'cause I do – but you seem pretty invested."

Hiram pushed his glasses back onto his nose. "I told you before; this kind of abuse is not new to me," he replied levelly. "I've tried many cases involving a lot of horrific things, especially where kids are concerned." He shrugged. "Besides, it just as easily could have been Rachel, and Kurt's a good friend of hers. Not to mention the fact that I'm the only lawyer in Ohio that I trust one hundred percent."

Burt let out a heavy breath. "Well, I don't know how to thank you," he said.

Another shrug, and Hiram stood up. "Sending over a box of chocolates would be sufficient."

Burt forced a chuckle, too preoccupied to really laugh.

Hiram stopped on his way out the door. "I hope you realize how many kids you've saved, Burt."

Burt didn't really know how to respond to that, but Hiram spoke again before he had the chance, this time with a force that Burt had never heard before.

"We're going to make sure he burns in Hell."

* * *

><p>Rachel fidgeted in her seat as Mr. Schue reviewed regular verb conjugations for what had to be the six hundredth time. She did love having him as a Glee coach, but Rachel was developing a sneaking suspicion that he didn't actually speak Spanish. So she really didn't feel that guilty for not paying attention to the subject matter she'd already learned back to front in September.<p>

Instead, she was leaned back in her chair with her notebook propped against the edge of her desk as she doodled an intricate collage of stars across the entire page. She was putting the finishing touches on a star in the upper right corner when a folded slip of paper brushed over her shoulder and landed in her lap.

She picked it up with a frown, unfolding it to see Blaine's messy scrawl.

_Hey have you seen Finn today?_

Casting a glance at Mr. Schue to make sure his back was turned, Rachel quickly scribbled a response (_Not yet, why? Is something wrong?_) and slipped the note behind her, a tiny seed of worry taking root in her gut. She didn't share any part of her schedule with Finn on Tuesdays, so it wasn't that surprising that she hadn't talked with him since the day before, but she hadn't seen him in the halls between classes either.

The paper fell back into her lap.

_I don't know. I haven't seen him but I don't have any classes with him until after lunch._

Rachel frowned more deeply. If Blaine hadn't seen Finn at all, then why was he worried?

_What's going on?_

Blaine's reply came more quickly than she expected. _I don't know. I saw him in the weight room yesterday and he was really upset but we didn't talk about it._

Rachel pressed her lips together. She knew Finn, and this meant one of two things – either he'd had some kind of emotional outburst and was trying to take some time to calm down, or he was about to have some kind of emotional outburst, in which case he was a time bomb waiting to go off.

_Okay, thanks, she wrote back. I'll find him at lunch._

No sooner had she passed the paper back to Blaine that she realized the third possibility, and felt her heart lurch as she knew it would be even worse than the two previous options: he could have already had an outburst and was about to have another one. In which case… Rachel wasn't exactly sure, but she didn't want to find out.

Finn didn't show up to lunch, or to Glee rehearsal later that day.

* * *

><p>At almost three o'clock on the dot, McManus' pager buzzed on his hip, and he walked quickly to Ward 3F. This was the fourth time he'd received a page like this since Saturday, and the previous three times had resulted with Kurt being taken back to solitary confinement. Needless to say, McManus didn't have a lot of confidence that this would be any different.<p>

He pushed through the door to the ward. "What's going on?" he said to Charlie, the head nurse on staff (most of the patients in 3F couldn't be trusted to keep their hands to themselves where female nurses were concerned – the only female staff members who worked there were the two women who ran art therapy for the entire hospital).

Charlie glanced over his shoulder towards where Kurt was sitting on the floor at the far corner of the room, surrounded by loose sheets of paper. "Well… we're not sure," Charlie said. "Zack's out now and during art therapy Ashley gave him some crayons and paper but ever since she did, he's been drawing the exact same thing over and over again."

McManus' eyebrows shot up. Either Zack was becoming more prone to fits of hysteria like Eleanor, or he was actually trying to communicate something he couldn't find the words for.

"And he won't stop," Charlie continued. "Ashley tried to take the crayons away when art therapy was over, but he screamed at her and wouldn't let her get close."

"Was he violent?"

Charlie shook his head. "No, but he might've been if Ashley had pushed any more than she did. I'm not sure."

McManus let out a sigh, partly from relief that – for now, at least – Kurt didn't have to be carted back to the solitary room. "Okay," he said. "I'll go see what I can do."

Approaching Kurt's claimed spot in the corner, McManus was careful to stay about three feet away so as not to stress Kurt out even more. Hitching up his pants, McManus crouched in order to have a better look at the drawings scattered across the floor in a messy halo around Kurt's feet. Kurt glanced at him warily out of the corner of his eye for a moment before hunching back over the paper he was currently scribbling across in green crayon.

It took McManus several seconds to figure out what he was looking at. Each paper sported a series of thick lines, crossing and swooping over each other in a sequence that seemingly meant nothing, apart from the fact that it was the exact same sequence on every page. Different colors, sizes, and angles, but the pattern was the same. McManus abruptly realized that they were not a randomly selected pattern but instead a group of four Chinese symbols, repeated again and again from page to page.

"Zack, what are these?" McManus asked softly. "What are you drawing?"

"It's a secret," Kurt snapped, not taking his eyes off the paper in his lap.

"Okay," McManus acquiesced, sitting back on his heels. "I'm just going to stay here, then."

McManus sat in silence for several minutes, during which Kurt finished six more pages and didn't look up from his work even once. Eventually, still not meeting McManus' eye, Kurt finished a seventh page and rather than drop it on the floor with the others, pushed it into McManus' hands. He then stood up and walked off without another word, disappearing into his room.

Frowning, McManus studied the page Kurt had given him. It was different from the rest – rather than a single instance of the pattern, the paper was clogged with them. There had to be at least thirty identical repetitions of the symbols crammed into the single page.

And, McManus realized with a start, two English words directly in the center, scrawled in Zack's jagged preschool pen.

_HELP ME_

* * *

><p>It was rare that Jacob Novacek took a special interest in the cases being taken care of in his precinct beyond keeping tabs on what his officers were handling. After all, as the chief of police he generally had bigger responsibilities to manage. However, today was different.<p>

Standing at Officer Lee's desk, surveying the cluttered assortment of boxes that Lee was currently labeling for the Evidence room, Novacek was suddenly hit with a wave of nausea. In his years as an officer, Novacek had seen his fair share of disgusting crimes (grisly murders, gang fights, rapes, and a host of others) but he'd never seen anything quite on this scale before. At least, not in Toledo.

"This is everything?" he asked, leafing through the contents of one open box.

"Most of it," Lee replied. "Some of it's already been processed and taken down to Evidence."

"You get a victim tally yet?"

Lee nodded, looking a little green himself. "We found records of twenty-seven boys and girls, including a teenage girl in 1994 and that Hummel kid from Lima."

Novacek shook his head, clicking his tongue against his teeth. "And none of them ever said a thing. Jesus."

Lee finished labeling one box and moved on to another. "When are you interviewing him?"

Novacek sighed, steeling his nerves. "I guess now's as good a time as any," he said, clutching the case file under his arm. He gestured to the boxes with his free hand. "Let me know when this is all catalogued – I'll help you notify the families."

Lee nodded. "Will do. Good luck with the psycho."

The only people in the precinct's holding cell were a few druggies, a couple of girls who had gotten into a violent catfight at the mall, and, sitting casually in the corner like he was waiting for a coffee order, was a man that immediately gave Novacek the impression of a relaxed Doberman.

Novacek approached the bars. "You've got quite the track record, if the contents of your apartment are anything to go by, Mr. Truman."

The man met Novacek's eye with a startlingly amiable smile. "Please," he said. "Call me John."


	67. Special Feature

_Special Feature  
><em>

Afternoon study hall on Wednesday found Mercedes, Tina, Rachel, and Blaine clustered around a table in the library. Blaine and Tina were quietly discussing the homework from their junior English class while Mercedes and Rachel attempted to concentrate on History. Rachel, however, was making this difficult for Mercedes since she continuously fidgeted and checked her phone every few seconds, barely paying any attention to the Battle of Waterloo at all.

"Rachel, this is a _partner _project," Mercedes finally snapped, making Blaine and Tina look up from their Hemingway texts. "I shouldn't be doing all the work while you text your boyfriend."

Rachel frowned (though to her credit, she did look a little guilty). "I'm not texting Finn," she said. "I'm waiting for him to text me."

"You still haven't heard from him?" asked Blaine.

Rachel shook her head. "No, and I'm beginning to actually worry."

"Wait, what happened?" Mercedes cut in, her annoyance at Rachel pushed aside (for now).

"I saw Finn in the weight room on Monday and he was upset about something," Blaine clarified. "Since then he's all but dropped off the grid."

"He hasn't returned any of my calls or texts," Rachel said, glancing at her phone again. "The only reason I haven't gone over to his house yet is because I'm frankly a little scared to."

Mercedes felt her stomach flip over. She'd noticed Finn's absence yesterday and today, but she hadn't thought he'd disappeared. If Finn was insisting this much on being alone, it was bad news either for him or for Kurt. Mercedes hoped that whatever the problem was, it was Finn's and not Kurt's. Kurt had enough to deal with, and Finn was more easily fixed.

* * *

><p>Once school finally let out, Blaine steeled his nerves and drove to Finn and Kurt's house. Pulling up and parking at the curb, Blaine saw with no small amount of relief that Finn's pickup was the only vehicle in the driveway. Talking to Finn nowadays was always a little nerve-wracking, but that was nothing compared to the fear Blaine felt just thinking of having to face Burt or Carole (Burt especially). Besides, Blaine had faced Finn nearly every day at school, whereas the last time he'd seen Burt and Carole had been at the pool party for Kurt, and Burt had sent him more than one look making it clear just how much Burt didn't want him there.<p>

Blaine took a deep breath and stepped out of the car. He shivered as he walked up to the house, though he wasn't entirely sure it was from the cold. He hesitated before he knocked on the door, not really sure he wanted to get involved with this again, but just as he was starting to consider turning back to his car, Finn pulled the door open.

"Hey," Blaine said quickly.

"Hey," Finn responded. Blaine couldn't quite tell if Finn's reaction was positive or negative, but he felt a little more confident when Finn jerked a thumb over his shoulder and said, "I saw you through the window."

"Rachel's freaking out about you," Blaine informed him.

Finn gave a half-shrug, quirking an eyebrow. "I know, I've seen all nine hundred texts. I just… wanted some time off."

"Is everything okay?"

Finn shook his head. "Not really," he said tightly. "You want to come in?"

He turned and walked down the hall without giving Blaine a chance to accept or decline, leaving the door open. Blaine stepped inside, shutting the door behind him and loosening his scarf, though he didn't remove his coat. It felt incredibly strange to be standing in this house again, without the excited anticipation of spending the afternoon or weekend with Kurt.

Passing through the kitchen, Blaine entered the living room where Finn was just shutting off the TV. He plopped heavily onto the couch, leaving Blaine to sink nervously into the armchair to Finn's right.

"So… what's going on?" Blaine started, shifting in his seat. "Why'd you disappear?"

"Oh, I, uh…" Finn rubbed at the back of his neck. "I had kind of a big fight with my mom. It's fine; we talked and made up."

Blaine knew better than to ask what the fight was about. "Well, you should let Rachel know you're alive," he remarked. "She's about ready to send out a search party."

Finn chuckled dryly. "Yeah, I'll text her later," he said, sounding not all that concerned that his girlfriend was freaking out.

"Have you heard anything from the hospital?" Blaine ventured, his fingers twisting around each other in his lap.

Finn stared at him for a second, like he was trying to decide whether or not to say something potentially harmful. Instead, the only thing he did say was, "Kurt's having a really hard time."

Blaine swallowed. "Is… is there anything I can do?"

Finn shook his head, crossing his arms. "Nah, it's okay. I'm going to visit him this Saturday, so I'll let you know how he's doing."

Blaine nodded, not pushing any further. He wanted to help; he really did. But after everything that had gone down since January, he was fairly certain that the Hudson-Hummels didn't want his help. Not knowing what else to say, Blaine looked around the room, feeling very out of place and maybe a tiny bit unwelcome.

His eyes fell on a framed photo of Finn and Kurt on the shelf next to the TV. They were sitting next to each other at some restaurant Blaine didn't recognize, both laughing hard at a joke that had probably been told a few seconds before Burt or Carole snapped the picture. Blaine had seen the photo before – it was, after all, only about a year old – but what struck him about it now was how _happy _Kurt looked. Finn too.

Blaine didn't understand how everything had spiraled out of control so quickly, but he was pretty sure that a lot of it was his fault.

"What are you looking at?" Finn cut through Blaine's thoughts.

Blaine gestured to the photo. "That's a good picture of Kurt," he said.

Finn coughed lightly. "Actually, that's Zack."

Blaine blinked, his gaze snapping back to the picture. Looking more closely, he could now see with a horrible twisting in his gut that the laughing creases of Kurt's face were in the wrong places – his eyes squinted too tightly and his mouth a little too open.

"…Oh," he said, for lack of a better response.

Finn sighed. "Listen, I was talking to Burt…" he started. "I'm really sorry, but you can't come see him."

"What? Why?"

"The hospital only lets family members visit. I don't know if Kurt would want you to come, honestly, but even if he did it wouldn't be allowed."

Blaine released a heavy exhale, chastising himself for not realizing sooner. Of course they wouldn't let him. Wasn't it kind of common knowledge that mental hospitals were picky about the people they allowed through their doors?

An idea struck him then, and he turned his attention back to Finn. "Wait, what about a letter?" he asked. "If I wrote a letter to Kurt, would you take it to him?"

Finn considered this for a second, then shrugged. "Yeah, sure. I can't say for sure whether he'll read it, but I'll take it to him."

Blaine was only a little relieved, but he said thanks anyway, knowing it was the absolute most he could ask for.

* * *

><p>Zack didn't like the playground any more. It was sunny but not warm, and without Tyler and Kurt it was boring. At least, it was boring when Truman was leaving him alone, which was becoming less and less often.<p>

Zack asked Truman why he always wanted to play with him and not Craig or Robbie, but Truman had only responded with, "Because you're my favorite," which didn't actually explain anything.

Another thing Zack didn't understand was why Craig always got so mad every time Zack and Truman were playing together. Zack didn't _like_ playing with Truman, but it wasn't Craig's business.

Eventually, Truman went up top for a while and Zack and Craig were left in the playground on their own (well, Robbie and Schism were there too, but Robbie hardly ever played with anyone and Schism never did). Craig grabbed Zack's arm and pulled him aside.

Zack immediately wrenched away. "Leave me alone!"

"You've got to stay away from Truman when I'm up top," Craig insisted, though he didn't reach for Zack's arm again.

"Why?" snapped Zack.

"He's_ hurting_ you, Z."

Zack shook his head vigorously, scuffing his foot against the ground. "No," he said. "We have fun."

"You call _this_ fun?" Craig demanded, yanking Zack's arm forward and pushing up the sleeve to expose a few of the cigarette burns Zack had been trying to hide.

"Let _go!_" Zack shrieked, attempting to twist out of Craig's hold. Craig released him, and Zack edged away. "Don't _touch_ me," he spat, glaring at Craig with as much ferocity as he could muster. "I _hate _it when you touch me."

Craig's eyes narrowed. "Then why the fuck do you let Truman anywhere near you?"

Zack squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers curling into fists. He wished Kurt or Tyler or Eleanor were here to make Craig go away. He hated Craig and he hated Truman, and all he wanted to do was to go somewhere quiet and alone.

But he was stuck here with them, so he braced himself and rather than answer Craig's question, he did what Eleanor would do.

"_FUCK YOU!_" he screamed, lashing at Craig with his fingernails.

Craig blinked and stepped back, and Zack turned and ran to the merry-go-round.

* * *

><p>By now, Kurt had decided it was just better not to think anymore. During the day Franklin would take him out to the playground or they'd play around the house with Kurt's Hot Wheels collection, and it was okay. Everything was okay. Then as soon as Franklin said it was bedtime, Kurt would tense and beg for one more matchbox car race, one more round of Go Fish, one more movie. Franklin always said no, though, instead grabbing Kurt's hand and pulling him upstairs.<p>

Whatever Franklin wanted to do would last for awhile (Kurt didn't know how long) and then he'd give Kurt one last kiss or squeeze or rub between the legs before going back downstairs to sleep on the couch, leaving Kurt to put on his pajamas and tuck himself into bed.

Tonight ended a little differently.

As Franklin gripped Kurt around the waist, grunting barely loud enough to be heard over the static buzzing in Kurt's head, Kurt clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, his toes curling next to Franklin's knees. Kurt let out a strained groan when the final familiar burst exploded in his gut (he'd gotten good at keeping quiet during this, but at the very end it hurt way too much to stay silent). His lungs and insides burning, Kurt tried to breathe, waiting for Franklin to pull away and release the awful pressure in Kurt's belly.

But Franklin didn't, and Kurt felt terror tug at his stomach when instead Franklin moved to lie on his side, pulling Kurt with him. Beginning to panic, Kurt squirmed and tried to scoot away, but Franklin was still inside him and the movement caused a searing flame of electricity to shoot up his spine and into his head and down to his fingertips and toes. Franklin dropped an arm over Kurt's shoulders, not letting Kurt put any distance between them.

Unable to move and with panic clawing at the base of his skull, Kurt shut his eyes, shaking as he tried to ignore the stretching hot pressure sitting in the pit of his abdomen. As Franklin's breath fell lightly across the top of Kurt's head, Kurt dug his fingernails into his palms and counted to ten in his head, again and again until he fell into a desperate sleep.


	68. Tulips And Tattoos

_Tulips And Tattoos  
><em>

Artie had long since decided that it was probably best not to get involved with all this outside the production of his movie. The good news was that his applications weren't due until sometime in the winter – he wanted to apply for early admission but if the Hudson-Hummels needed time for things to calm down then Artie was more than willing to wait. For now, though, everyone seemed to have forgotten about it but him.

Which was totally fine. Again – not involved.

That didn't stop Artie from being worried when Finn didn't show up to school for two days straight, though, or from being surprised when he walked in and sat down at the lunch table on Thursday as if he'd never been gone.

"Dude, where have you _been_?" Mike asked, his eyebrows raised and his mouth half full of Ruffles.

"I took some time off," Finn replied casually. Rachel seemed to be the only one at the table not giving Finn a questioning or surprised look, so Artie guessed they'd already seen each other and talked sometime that morning.

"What for?" Rory pressed.

Artie had to suppress an eyeroll. Regardless of his own personal conflict with Rory where Sugar was concerned, what was going on in the Hudson-Hummel family wasn't any more Rory's business than it was Artie's. If he'd had the ability to move his legs, he'd probably have kicked Mr. Potato Head's shin under the table.

"I just wanted to," Finn answered with a shrug, his voice tight.

Artie's jaw nearly dropped when Quinn decided to open her mouth and deposit her two cents. "You should've at least called Rachel and told her you were okay," she said, matter-of-fact. "She was freaking out."

Finn's eyes hardened and Rachel frowned. "Quinn, it's fine."

Sugar shrugged. "I think it was really selfish," she said, her tone sickly sweet.

Artie braced himself for a rant from Rachel defending her boyfriend or a snappish retort from Finn (both of which would have been justified), but was startled when Blaine, who was sitting by Artie's elbow, opened his mouth instead.

"Would you _shut up_?"

Blaine's fork clanked against his plate, and all eyes turned to him. Sugar's jaw clacked audibly shut.

"It's no one's business except Finn's," Blaine snapped, then turned to glare at Quinn. "Quinn, you have been the absolute worst 'supportive' friend over the past couple of months, and none of us want to talk to you or ask for your help because we all _know_ you'll be judgmental and condescending more than anything else you claim to be. So you really don't have a right to tell Finn what he should or shouldn't do."

Blaine stopped for a breath, then turned to the second offender.

"And Sugar," he said slowly. "_No one _cares what you think."

Sugar huffed, her eyes narrowed as Blaine picked up his fork again, and Quinn shook her head, stabbing irritatedly at her salad. The rest of the people around the table – including Finn – remained silent in shock. Artie nudged Blaine and gave him a fist bump under the table.

* * *

><p>Mercedes was pretty sure she had a good idea of why she'd been pulled out of class and called to Miss Pillsbury's office after lunch, but that didn't make her any less anxious.<p>

And apparently, Miss Pillsbury was just as uncomfortable. Fidgeting and wringing her hands, Miss Pillsbury seemed to tremble in her chair, looking something akin to a deer in headlights. "Mercedes…" she started. "Several of your teachers have said to me that your grades are starting to drop."

Mercedes frowned in mild confusion. She hadn't expected to be talking about schoolwork, but it was definitely preferable to being forced into discussing her emotions with a woman who insisted on cleaning the sink before she washed her hands.

"Okay…" she said.

"Well, can you tell me why?" Miss Pillsbury prompted.

"I don't really know."

Miss Pillsbury leaned her elbows on the desk top, lacing her spidery fingers together. "Mercedes, I need to know if you're okay."

Mercedes' stomach twisted slightly. "Did Mr. Schue ask you to check up on me?" she wanted to know.

Miss Pillsbury's eyes grew wider than Mercedes had previously thought possible. "N-no," she stammered, her orange curls bouncing around her shoulders as she shook her head. "But, um… he did tell me that you haven't really been participating in rehearsals lately. He said you've been turning down solos?"

Miss Pillsbury's last statement hadn't been a question, so Mercedes didn't know why she'd phrased it like it was. She was beginning to feel very cornered.

Giving what she hoped came across as a nonchalant shrug, Mercedes responded with her own half-question. "So what?"

"That doesn't really sound like you," Miss Pillsbury observed, and Mercedes wanted to snap back that Miss Pillsbury really didn't know her at all. "Is everything all right at home?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Everything's fine."

_Stop pushing._

Miss Pillsbury pursed her lips and managed not to say anything for about four seconds. "Does this have to do with Kurt?" she asked softly.

_God damn it._

Mercedes stared at her for a long time, simultaneously wanting to scream and shout and never talk or think about Kurt again.

At long last, her lower lip trembling and her vision starting to blur, Mercedes spoke.

"I don't know what to do," she confessed, swiping at her eyes.

Miss Pillsbury nodded sympathetically. "I have something for you," she said, and for half a second Mercedes thought that Miss Pillsbury might actually be able to offer some words of real comfort or solid advice or, hell, a _hug_. But then she pulled a pamphlet out of her drawer and leaned across the desk to push it into Mercedes' hand.

The words _MY BEST FRIEND IS CRAZY!_ jumped out from the cover in pastel blue block letters juxtaposed above a comical cartoon figure of a woman tearing her hair out in frustration. Mercedes had to beat down an urge to do the exact same.

"It was originally written for people who had friends with bipolar disorder," Miss Pillsbury explained proudly. "But I think it'll be useful for you—"

Not really thinking at all about what she was doing, Mercedes ripped the pamphlet in two, slamming the torn halves onto the desk and lurching to her feet.

"Get a degree," she spat, not even remotely caring that Miss Pillsbury looked like she'd just swallowed a hand grenade without the pin.

Mercedes made it out the door and only twenty feet down the hallway before breaking down completely.

* * *

><p>After the last bell of the day, Puck headed to the boys' locker room to pack up some of his football gear left over from the fall (Coach Beiste had finally snapped and yelled at him in the hallway for not taking care of it sooner), and he found Finn sitting on one of the benches in a t-shirt and shorts, tying his sneakers.<p>

"Hey, dude," Puck nodded in greeting, leaning a shoulder against the bank of lockers. "What're you doing?"

"Going out to run laps," Finn answered. He shrugged. "You know, blow off some steam." He finished tying his shoes and stood up.

"Wait up a second; I'll come with you," Puck said, ducking around the corner to his own locker to grab his running shoes. He pulled them onto his feet as fast as he could, yanked off his sweatshirt, and was almost surprised to find that Finn had actually waited for him.

Exchanging absolutely no conversation back and forth (Finn seemed to be wrapped up in his own thoughts), the two of them walked out to the track and broke into a jog. They fell easily into pace with each other, a practice perfected by years of football training together, both of them ignoring the freezing early March air passing over their exposed skin. They'd warm up soon enough.

For Puck, the biggest problem with this whole thing (besides trying to understand what the hell was making Kurt sick) was knowing where Finn stood. Finn had always been an open book and it was_ so clear_ that there was something very wrong now, but Puck just didn't know any more how Finn would react to offered support. To be honest, it was more than a little scary.

Eventually, Puck lost track of the number of laps they'd run, though it probably didn't matter all that much. He kept glancing at Finn out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge just how much steam Finn had left to blow off, but it was hard to tell.

He decided to take a risk with a mildly probing question. Finn was faster and had longer legs, but he was a klutz and Puck had more endurance, so if Finn got pissed off, then Puck could always outrun him.

"So… can I ask how Kurt's doing?" he started. "Or is that, like, taboo?"

To Puck's surprise, Finn stopped running. Puck slowed to a stop beside him, waiting for Finn to respond. Finn ran a hand over the back of his neck, swallowing.

"Okay, look," he said abruptly. "You _cannot_ say _anything_ about this. To _anyone_."

Puck frowned, almost startled by the seriousness of Finn's tone. "It's really that bad?"

"Just promise me."

Puck immediately raised his right hand. "Swear to God."

Finn let out an odd huff of breath, as if he was getting ready to jump off a cliff into the ocean – he'd probably be safe, but he wouldn't know for sure until he hit the water.

"What's going on?" Puck prompted when Finn said nothing for several seconds.

"I don't even _know_; that's the problem," Finn snapped (Puck couldn't tell what exactly he was mad at). He let out another huff, shaking his head. "And the worst part is, there's _nothing_ that I can do."

"Wait, I'm confused," Puck stopped him. "What happened?"

Then, the floodgates opened and the dam burst.

Finn was _ranting_, spilling everything Puck had thought he might be dealing with and ten times more. Puck was pretty sure he was missing at least a third of all that Finn was talking about – the screams and knives and the unwanted late-night visits – and the reason they'd only hung out at Puck's house for the past two years suddenly became glaringly obvious.

Puck felt sick.

"Jesus _Christ_," he breathed when, at long last, Finn finished. The wind had picked up slightly and by now they'd lost the heat of their run. Finn was shivering.

"How the hell is _any_ of that possible?" Puck asked, saying the first thing that popped into his head and not really expecting an answer. He didn't know what was more disturbing – the fact that Kurt could have been killed in his own head (_what_) or the fact that the same counterpart who had hit on Puck just two months ago had _molested_ his best friend.

At this point, Puck wouldn't have been surprised if right this second his stomach tried to reject the chips and dip he'd eaten an hour ago.

"Does Blaine know about any of this?" he asked.

Finn shook his head. "No. No one does."

"Not even Rachel?"

"Are you kidding? I've never seen her keep a secret for more than an hour."

"Jesus Christ," Puck repeated. "So… this is why you've been acting so weird lately?"

Finn gave a half shrug. "I guess. Yeah."

Both boys were quiet for several long moments, Puck trying to process everything Finn had just unloaded and Finn no doubt trying to recover from it.

Puck was the first to break the silence. "Do you need, like, a hug or something?"

Finn breathed out slowly through his nose, then nodded. "Yeah."

* * *

><p>As Burt was attempting to put together a quick dinner for himself and Finn (Carole had picked up an extra shift at work), the phone rang on the counter behind him. Wiping bits of lettuce off his fingers, he grabbed the receiver. "Hello?"<p>

"_Burt, it's Hiram._"

In the space of half a second, Burt forgot entirely about the salad. "What's going on? Did John Truman hire a lawyer?"

"_Uh, no,_" Hiram replied. His voice was tight. "_At least, not yet. But, um…_"

"What is it?" Burt pressed, his stomach churning.

The receiver buzzed as Hiram let out a breath. "_You remember I told you that the Toledo police recovered evidence from John Truman's apartment of his past, um, indecencies…_"

_Oh, God…_

"_They faxed me everything they found relating to Kurt. You might want— Well, actually, I'm certain you _don't _want to see this, but that's up to you._"

Burt's pulse was roaring in his ears, blocking out nearly everything else. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

The drive to the Berrys' house passed in a blur, and Hiram opened the door only three seconds after Burt rang the bell.

"Burt, before you do this," Hiram stopped him on the way to the study. "Before you open this door, you need to be absolutely _sure_ you want to see it."

Burt _didn't_ want to see it. He _really _didn't, but he knew he had to. He owed it to Kurt.

"Hiram, I'm Kurt's _father_," he said lowly, his voice unsteady and his expression hard. "I need to know _exactly_ why my kid's in the hospital right now."

Hiram's mouth pressed into a thin line, and he nodded. "Okay," he said, and entered the study with Burt following behind. He'd put the faxed sheets in a red manila folder, which he picked up from the top of his desk to hand to Burt. "You may want to sit down."

Burt ignored him, flipping the folder open, and then he did sit down.

Sinking into the chair across from Hiram's desk, Burt wasn't sure he could do anything but stare. The top sheet was a copy of a photograph, showing an impossibly tiny boy lying on his side in a bed with rocketship-print sheets that Burt vaguely remembered buying from Target with Kurt riding in the shopping cart.

"_I HATE rockets!_" an echo of Kurt's voice yelled in the back of Burt's head. Before his fifth birthday Kurt had cut the sheets to shreds with the scissors from his craft kit.

A small black patch had been pasted onto the photo to preserve Kurt's modesty, but he was naked and half-curled on the bed like he was waiting for the photographer to unleash a well-deserved punishment.

His fingers cold and shaking, Burt moved on to the next picture, bile burning the base of his throat.

In this photo, Kurt was standing in the middle of his bedroom floor in their old house, and Burt was struck with the sudden and agonizing realization of why Kurt had asked to move into the basement years later. He was again naked except for the black patch, and Burt couldn't help thinking it was a little too late for preservation. His stomach jerked and twisted when he saw the finger-shaped bruises around Kurt's neck and narrow hips. Kurt had turned his head away from the camera, his arms hugging his skinny torso.

_He's so little._

The last picture was in the same location, and Kurt hadn't moved between the two. But his arms had dropped and he was looking directly into the lens, and it was so, _so_ much worse.

Then, with all the force of a bullet train slamming into him at full speed, Burt realized that he wasn't looking at his four-year-old son.

It wasn't _Kurt_.

It was Schism.


	69. The Smell Of Nightfall

_The Smell Of Nightfall  
><em>

Finn couldn't really remember the last time he'd felt this tired, not just in his body but in his brain as well. He was emotionally exhausted and physically fatigued, and the only thing he wanted was to be able to take it one thing at a time, but it seemed the universe was determined not to let that happen. He didn't have the space left in his head to deal with all the different layers of problems weighing on his shoulders, so when Quinn approached him at his locker just before last period on Friday, he didn't wait for it to turn into an argument before he snapped at her.

"Finn, can I talk to you?" she asked, cradling a stack of textbooks in the crook of her elbow.

"Whatever lecture you want to give me today, can it wait until after school?" he responded almost flatly, shoving his books into his backpack. "I have physics now."

Truth be told, he didn't have the space in his head for physics class either, but he'd rather deal with numbers and equations he didn't understand than deal with Quinn. At least he knew the equations made sense to someone.

"I wanted to apologize," Quinn said quickly as he zipped his backpack shut.

Finn glanced at her for a second in confusion, unsure of how to react. He shut his locker, hefting his bag onto his shoulder. "Okay," he said. "For what?"

"For being such a bitch over the past couple of months. I didn't want to…" She trailed off for a second, searching for the right words. "…to make Kurt upset, or hurt your feelings."

Finn raised his eyebrows, not really sure if he believed her. "So… you don't think Kurt's faking?"

Quinn shook her head. "I never thought he was _faking _his problems, Finn," she clarified. "Whatever he went through, I'm sure it was horrible, and I… I feel so bad for making things worse." Finn noticed her fingers tightening slightly around the stack of books in her arms. "I still don't believe anyone can really have more than one personality—"

Finn's defensive gears immediately snapped back into place, and he opened his mouth to argue, but Quinn kept talking.

"—but what I think doesn't factor in," she said. She took a deep breath. "So, from here on out, you have my word – no more arguments or contradictions or obnoxiously stated opinions. You have my full, unconditional support."

Her lips pressed together like she was waiting for him to refuse, but after a few moments' consideration, Finn nodded. "Okay," he said, more because he didn't have the energy to fight with her anymore than anything else. "Apology accepted."

Quinn nodded as well, a hesitant but relieved smile spreading over her features. "Good," she said, then patted his arm and walked off down the hall as the bell rang for last period.

And Finn wasn't sure, but he thought she might've looked lighter on her feet.

* * *

><p>Blaine's heart was thudding almost painfully in his chest as he caught up with Finn in the midst of the other Glee kids filing out of the choir room after rehearsal. "Finn! Wait up!"<p>

Finn stopped and turned around, telling Rachel that he'd meet her at the parking lot.

Blaine waved to Rachel, then reached into his inner vest pocket and pulled out an envelope folded in half. He held onto it for a few extra seconds, still not sure if its contents were just right. He'd re-written the letter at least ten different times last night, only giving up and settling on his last draft when his father had banged on the door at one in the morning and told him to go to bed.

"Is that it?" Finn asked.

Blaine nodded, feeling a little light-headed as he gave the envelope to Finn. "He doesn't have to write me back. Just… let me know if he reads it."

Finn tucked it into the pocket of his letterman jacket. "Okay, I will."

"And… if he's there," Blaine said, shifting his weight to his other foot. "If he's there tomorrow when you see him, say hi to him for me."

"All right. Guess I'll see you Monday."

* * *

><p>As the hands of the pendulum clock on the wall of Hiram's study rounded to seven in the evening, Hiram was immersed in legal research regarding child abuse and extreme emotional aggrievance. (He hadn't been named first chair for prosecution yet and so far the case wasn't even going to trial, but fortune did favor the prepared.) The folder with the photographs of Kurt as a child lay open on the desk beside him.<p>

He jumped slightly when the phone rang next to his elbow. Dropping his glasses onto the desk, he picked up the receiver on the second ring. "Hiram Berry speaking."

"_Mr. Berry, this is Chief Novacek from Toledo. I've got some bad news._"

"Oh?"

"_John Truman asked for a lawyer._"

Hiram's gut twisted, his hand clenching around the phone. "Has he gotten one yet?"

"_No, so far no one's been willing to take his case,_" Novacek answered. "_Even if he weren't a freaking pedophile, there's so much evidence stacked against him that it's not much of an argument. I'm amazed he was too stubborn to just cut his losses and take the fall._"

Hiram knew Novacek was right – it probably wouldn't be much of a fight, but all John Truman needed was a lawyer smart enough to find a single foothold, and it would turn nasty.

"I want first chair for prosecution," he said.

"_I know, and I can't promise anything. But I'll try to pull a few strings._"

It was the most Hiram could ask for.

"Okay, let me know when the defense council's been decided."

"_Will_ _do._"

Hanging up, Hiram sat back in his chair, silently fuming. This was one of the few times he really hated the American judicial system. Most of the time the equal-rights-for-all-people thing was fantastic, especially where hiring a lawyer when you couldn't afford one was concerned. Unfortunately, the system automatically awarded a lawyer to anyone who qualified as _Homo sapiens_, not necessarily qualifying as _human_.

He glared at the sickening pictures lying on his desk top, as if looking at them with enough hatred would change them to a less humiliating subject.

Finally, he sighed and ran a hand over his face. He needed a glass of wine.

Standing up and shutting the study door behind him, Hiram headed for the kitchen. He passed Rachel sitting in the living room, surrounded by open books. "Hi, honey," he called over his shoulder as he pulled a bottle of Merlot from the wine cupboard. "Where's Sam?"

"He went bowling with Mike."

"Oh, why didn't you go with them?" he asked, filling a glass.

"I have this stupid physics test to study for on Monday," she answered. "Anyway, it seemed like more of a guys'-night-out thing."

"Well, let me know if you need any study help. I could always use a break."

He stood in the kitchen for a few minutes in silence, finishing his wine, then placed his glass in the sink and steeled himself to get back to work. On the way back to his study, he halted in his tracks.

The study door was open.

His eyes flew to the couch. Rachel was gone.

_No, no, no, no…_

Bursting into the study, he found Rachel standing at his desk, frozen stiff.

"Rachel!" he cried, rushing to the desk. He grabbed the photo from her hand and tried to shove it and the rest of them back into their folder, out of sight.

"I…" Rachel said shakily, barely breathing. "I was l-looking for a highlighter— Is th-that Kurt?"

"You shouldn't have been in here," Hiram said, finally pushing the folder into a drawer.

"Is that Kurt?!" Rachel repeated, her voice high and stretched and thin as sewing thread.

Hiram let out a breath, trying to think quickly of how to handle this. "Rachel, listen to me—"

"Oh my _God_…" Rachel sobbed, both hands clamping over her mouth. Her shoulders pulled in as her chest compressed, and Hiram pulled her into a tight hug. Holding her as she shook and cried and tried to breathe, Hiram waited for several long minutes until she started to quiet.

Her shoulders still trembling, he gently pushed her back, sinking onto his desk chair so that they were nearly eye-level. She hadn't stopped crying but the heaving sobs had finally petered out. Her face was wet and horribly blotchy. Hiram held her hands in his own and he spoke as calmly as he could manage, suddenly remembering just how _young_ Rachel still was.

"Listen to me, Rachel," he said. "Listen. You _cannot_ speak to anyone about this. Nobody. Do you understand?"

Rachel shook her head, her eyes glassy with tears and exhaustion and fear and _confusion_. "B-But Kurt— He's—"

"Do you understand?" Hiram asked again, more forcibly.

Rachel blinked, a few drops sliding along the tear tracks on her cheeks.

Hiram exhaled heavily. "Look, Rachel… What happened to Kurt was horrifying, and I know how hard it is for you to not let yourself offer some kind of support. Trust me. I know how much you love him."

Rachel's head dropped and another sob forced its way out of her mouth.

"But Rachel, think," Hiram pressed, leaning forward. "Think about it. How do you imagine Kurt would feel if he knew you had seen those?"

Rachel swallowed, attempting to steady her breathing (it wasn't working very well). "I d-don't understand; wh-why do you have them?" she asked, her words cut through by hiccoughs.

"Because they found the man who hurt him," Hiram explained. "The pictures were in his apartment."

A tiny spark of something akin to rage lit up in Rachel's eyes. "He was arrested?"

"Yes," Hiram nodded. "And I am doing everything I can to make sure he gets exactly what's coming to him. But in the meantime, you have to keep this to yourself." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I know you've never been one for secrets, but those pictures were never meant for you to see, so this is a secret you're going to have to keep. Even from Finn."

Rachel set her jaw, her chin jutting forward slightly, and for a moment Hiram thought she was going to argue. "Let me help, then," she said, still sniffing and hiccoughing but determined. "I-I won't say anything about it to anyone, but let me help you with the case. I can do r-research, or I could—"

Hiram was shaking his head. "No, Rachel—" he said. "Rachel, stop. It's okay."

"Why not?" Rachel countered. "Please let me—"

"No," Hiram cut her off firmly.

Her lips clamped shut, and Hiram let out a sigh, squeezing her hands. "Rachaela, Kurt's not the only one I need to protect."

Rachel's mouth tightened, a fresh stream of tears working their way out of her eyes. "Okay," she whispered.

He pulled into another embrace, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. "There's nothing you can do right now, and there probably won't be for awhile," he said next to her ear. She felt tiny. "But for now, Kurt knows you're there for him, and so does Finn, and that's enough."

* * *

><p>Finn had been expecting some kind of jail or fortress to loom over them as Burt pulled the car into the parking lot. He hadn't expected the warm-looking brick face of a two-story building with non-threateningly white paneling around the windows and front doors. He hadn't expected the rooms inside to be painted sunny yellow and sea foam green, almost colors one would typically see on the walls in a day care. He hadn't expected any of the doctors or nurses to be smiling.<p>

As Burt checked in at the front receptionist's desk, Finn couldn't fight of a sudden realization that he really wanted his mom. But Carole had been picking up extra shifts every chance she could to make up for the time she'd spent at home with Kurt, and since Finn was visiting this weekend, Burt wasn't in desperate need of her company.

"Where's his ward?" Finn asked as he followed Burt past Reception and down the wide corridor.

"Upstairs," Burt answered, pressing the button for the elevator. "3F. Dr. McManus is meeting us there."

On the second floor, the hallways and visible rooms were still brightly painted, but to Finn they seemed smaller and more claustrophobic. Burt led him down another hallway to a nurses' station, where he had to check in a second time. They waited at the counter for about thirty seconds until a man with greyed-orange hair and an ID badge hanging from a strap around his neck approached them.

"Hi, Burt," he said, then turned to Finn. "And you must be Kurt's brother. Finn, right?" Finn shook his hand. "I'm Ted McManus. I've been working very closely with Kurt since he got here."

"Is Kurt back yet?" Burt cut in.

McManus sighed and Finn's fingertips went cold in the pockets of his jacket. "I'm afraid not. He's been switching fairly regularly between Zack and Truman, with a few appearances here and there from Craig and Robbie," the doctor explained. "Schism was also out for a couple hours yesterday, but things do seem to be steadying themselves."

Finn saw a shadow flit over Burt's face, though he couldn't tell why. "Has he been back in solitary?" Burt asked.

"Only once, on Wednesday, and it was more a matter of Kurt's personal safety than anything else. Zack was experiencing some kind of flashback, but he was either unable or unwilling to tell me any specifics."

Finn thought it was a little weird how casual McManus was acting about this, but he didn't want to talk anymore. "Can we see him now?" Finn requested, nervousness and anxiety chewing away at his intestines.

"Sure," said McManus. "Though, Burt, I'd actually like to talk to you in my office for a few minutes first. Is that all right?"

Burt nodded, and Finn's stomach flipped over.

_Don't make me go in there alone._

"Finn, you can either wait here or have some time with Kurt on your own. It's up to you."

Finn swallowed. "Um… who's out now?"

"It's been Zack all day so far, so he's probably still awake. I last checked on him about a half hour ago."

Finn dug his fingernails into his palms. He could do this, so long as he didn't have to face Truman. The thought of it made him nauseous and a little dizzy.

"Okay," he said, probably sounding shakier than he'd intended. "Yeah, I'll go see him."

"All right, I'll have Charlie take you in," McManus nodded. "Can you wait here for just a sec?"

Burt clapped Finn on the shoulder, as if to let him know that he wouldn't be far away, then walked with Dr. McManus back down the hall and around a corner, disappearing from view.

Finn stood where he was, trying to ignore how the floor felt so much less than solid.

* * *

><p>"So, what's wrong?" Burt asked as they entered McManus' office.<p>

"Well, I'm not sure something is wrong," McManus replied, circling around his desk and opening a drawer.

Burt frowned. "What do you mean?"

McManus produced a red manila folder (making Burt panic for about three seconds from the memory of the last red manila folder he'd opened). "Zack's been drawing."

"Zack always draws."

McManus shook his head, handing the folder to Burt. "No, I mean he's been doing the same drawing over and over again."

Burt's heart skipped when he saw the thick stack of sheets inside the folder, each of them marked with a horribly familiar series of four Chinese symbols. "Oh my God…"

"Does that mean anything to you?"

"He scratched this on my bedroom wall with a letter opener," Burt said, not bothering to mention that he fell asleep every night staring at the scratches and exhausting his brain trying to think of what the hell it could possibly mean to Zack and to Kurt.

McManus' eyebrows shot up. "How long ago was this?"

"A few weeks," Burt answered, still leafing through. "Finn got one of his friends to translate. It says 'man is beast' but I have no clue what that's supposed to mean."

"Well, he's definitely trying to tell us something," McManus said, clicking his tongue against his teeth. "I've been trying to work with Craig but he says that Zack's being extremely resistant and uncooperative, and Zack's been refusing to speak to me directly."

"But _why?_" Burt slapped the folder closed and dropped it back onto the desk, exasperated beyond his mental capacity.

McManus huffed a breath, planting his hands on his hips. "I think he's afraid of what Truman will do to him if he talks about anything regarding Kurt's past experiences."

Burt ran a hand over his mouth, images flashing through his mind of Schism staring back at him through a beaten four-year-old boy's eyes. "God…"

McManus took off his glasses, letting them fall on top of the folder containing Zack's drawings. "Burt, that's actually not the only thing I wanted to talk to you about."

_That wasn't enough?_

"What is it?"

"I don't think Kurt's the only one who's been attacked."

Burt's lungs briefly stopped what they were doing. "What?"

McManus' voice was tight. "Truman's been bragging about killing Eleanor and Tyler as well," he said. "And none of the others have seen them."

For a long time, Burt didn't speak, at a loss for how to react. Personally, he would be happy to be rid of Tyler and Eleanor, but not if it meant losing Kurt too, and if Truman wasn't just targeting Kurt there was no way it could be a good thing.

"How worried do I need to be about this?"

There was a terrifying pause before McManus replied. "I don't want to frighten you, but I'd be pretty worried," he said, resting his hands in his pockets. "Alters attacking each other is never a great sign – especially when the predominant is missing –and from the looks of things it seems that Truman is trying to take control and become the new dominant. Which is why we need to get Kurt back as soon as we possibly can."

Burt took a deep breath, trying to make sure that the floor beneath his feet was still there. "What's our time frame for this?"

McManus sucked air through his teeth. "It's impossible to say for sure. There will always be a chance that Kurt or the others could return, whether or not they do so on their own. But… the longer Kurt is gone, the harder it will be to bring him back."

* * *

><p>Finn shifted from foot to foot next to the nurses' station, his heart thudding against his ribcage like a boxing bag. He felt awkward, too tall for the low-ish ceiling, and like he shouldn't be there. Finally a guy in his thirties who reminded Finn a little of Sam walked up.<p>

"Hi," he said. "I'm Charlie; I'm the head nurse for 3F."

"I'm Kurt's brother."

Charlie nodded. "Yeah, Dr. McManus told me. You want to see him now?" Finn nodded, gulping and hoping the movement wasn't obvious. "Okay, come on. I'll let you guys hang out in Kurt's room – I already made sure he was up. Zack's out now, but he's waiting for you."

Charlie pulled open the door to the ward, leading Finn into what looked something like a dormitory. There were a few couches and armchairs, a couple of tables, and aside from one youngish guy who was sitting in an armchair and muttering something about Beelzebub, none of the people here looked crazy.

Finn realized Charlie was still talking.

"—you'll have to keep the door closed for some privacy from the other residents, but I'll keep Kurt's roommate in the common room and if anything happens – if Truman wakes up or Zack gets upset; anything – you can just stick your head out the door and call for Lenny." Charlie gestured to another guy that had to be an orderly.

Finn only nodded.

"Here we are," Charlie said, stopping in front of the last out of three doors leading off from the common room. He opened the door and stepped aside to allow Finn through. "Go ahead."

The air felt thinner and harder to absorb as Finn steeled his nerves and walked past Charlie, already having forgotten the nurse was there. The door shut behind him.

Kurt was sitting on the floor with his back propped against the side of the bed that presumably belonged to him. Chewing on his thumbnail with one leg tucked under the other, Kurt glanced at Finn's feet for only a brief moment before turning his gaze back to the frosted-over window. His limbs and neck were tense.

Finn swallowed, stepping closer. Hesitantly, he sank onto the edge of the other bed, his hands still in his pockets. "Hey, Zack," he said.

Kurt didn't respond, tearing a hangnail off his index finger with his teeth. Finn winced.

"How are you?" he asked, feeling incredibly stupid for saying it. He was almost grateful when Kurt seemed to ignore it. Finn coughed lightly, studying the thread count of his jeans. "We all really miss you at home," he said softly.

Silence.

"Zack?"

Finn moved to sit on the floor in front of Kurt, as close as he dared to get. Kurt purposefully turned his head to the side, his eyes examining the blank wall.

"Zack, please say something."

The tendons in Kurt's neck were rigid, his hands tightly curled in his lap.

_Why is he acting like this?_

"Okay, you don't have to say anything," Finn said, just wanting Kurt to stop behaving like he thought Finn was about to hit him. "But can you at least look at me? Zack?"

No response, no reaction. Finn couldn't tell if Zack was refusing to talk because he was afraid or because he was angry.

"Zack?"

Nothing.

"Kurt?" Finn leaned a little closer, praying for the first time since Burt had his heart attack. "Kurt, are you there?"

He waited, but Kurt only pulled his knees up to his chest, his head turned away.

"Please come back."

For a long time, the only sound in the room was Finn's breathing, though it was hard for him to hear it himself over the sound of his pulse pounding in his eardrums.

"Kurt, I don't know if you can hear me…" he started, swallowing again and completely failing to keep his voice even. "Maybe you're really gone, but—" He stopped to cough and clear his throat. "Kurt, I'm so sorry I didn't say goodbye. I'm sorry for everything. I'm so…"

He trailed off, letting out a long breath. Kurt gave no indication that he'd heard anything Finn had said.

Desperate for some way to get through to the seemingly impenetrable wall Kurt was trapped behind, Finn forced himself to abandon all previous reservations. He pushed himself onto his knees, then reached forward and pulled Kurt into his arms, sending another prayer skyward.

"Please come back," he repeated.

And then, with an almost painful sense of _relief_, he felt Kurt lean very slightly into the embrace.

He pulled back, searching his stepbrother's face for any sign of Kurt. But even though he was finally, _finally _looking Finn in the eye, there was no visible trace.

"Kurt?" he said, hoping that Kurt would blink and straighten up and be _Kurt_ again.

Kurt stared at him for several seconds, his expression nearly blank, then uncurled his arms from his abdomen and silently held up his hands, palms out. Finn's heart skipped.

Scrawled across each palm in slightly smudged black marker were the same four Chinese symbols Zack had carved into the wall at home. Finn couldn't read them, but he knew what they said.

"Zack, what is this?" Finn asked gently. "What does this mean?"

Kurt was silent, and Finn wasn't sure anymore if he wouldn't speak or if he couldn't.

"It's okay," Finn said. "You don't have to talk."

Finn moved to sit back against the bed next to Kurt. Kurt closed his hands, pulling them close to his torso again.

After a few moments, Kurt curled into Finn's side, just as tired and heavy as Finn felt. Finn released a breath of not-quite-relief and waited.

And waited.


	70. Light Up The Torches

_Light Up The Torches  
><em>

Kurt was growing more agitated by the minute as he traipsed across the forest floor with Eleanor and Tyler trudging behind him. Every tree they passed looked the same as the one before, and however many miles they'd covered (it was impossible to tell how far or long they had walked) had all been identical, the distance bleeding into itself. Kurt couldn't say if they'd walked five miles or fifty or in circles or if they'd hiked the same hundred yards over and over again.

"I don't want to walk any more," Tyler finally said from behind Kurt.

"We have to keep going," Kurt replied without pausing to glance over his shoulder.

"But I'm _tired_," Tyler whined. "And it all looks the same!"

Kurt sighed, closing his eyes for a second and trying not to be too annoyed. "I'm tired too, Tyler, but we don't have a choice," he said patiently, still not turning around. "Come on."

"_No!_"

Kurt finally halted in his tracks, frowning at the eight-year-old. Tyler had stopped fifteen feet back, clutching Raleigh and glaring at Kurt with an anger that Kurt would have normally expected from Eleanor.

"Kurt, maybe we should stop," said Eleanor. "We've been walking for hours."

"Weren't you the one who yelled at me for _not_ going anywhere?" Kurt countered.

Eleanor's eyes narrowed, an expression made more intimidating by the swollen black and blue bruises marring her face. "Sitting for five minutes to catch our breaths isn't going to kill us, fucktard," she snapped.

Kurt huffed. "Fine," he said. "Fine, we'll rest for a bit."

Tyler immediately curled up against the trunk of a tree, Raleigh tucked under his arm, and Eleanor went to sit beside him. Kurt sat down by himself.

* * *

><p>Robbie had been watching Truman closely ever since Kurt, Tyler, and Eleanor had disappeared. There really wasn't that much Robbie could do where Truman was concerned – after all, Truman was older, stronger, and homicidal – but at the very least Robbie had to make sure that Truman didn't kill Zack. Since Truman had begun singling out Zack as his favorite plaything, Zack had become angry and upset, avoiding interaction with everyone and yelling at anyone who pushed him too much. For the most part, Robbie ignored Zack's behavior – it was his job to make sure Zack stayed alive, and anything beyond that he'd let Craig worry about.<p>

But now, Truman's games were getting out of hand, and Robbie was beginning to really take notice.

At this particular moment, Truman was circling around the playground platforms Zack was cowering under, toying with him like they were playing hide-and-seek. Craig was up top, so if anyone was going to intervene before it turned a little more unsavory, it would have to be Robbie.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Truman called, pretending that he didn't know exactly where Zack was. "Come on, Z."

"Did you ever think that maybe he doesn't want to play with you?" Robbie said, approaching Truman from behind.

Truman paused to glance at Robbie for only a moment. "Bullshit," he said with a smile. "We have plenty of fun; you're just too much of a slice of dry toast to get it. Just because you're the High King of Boresville, it doesn't mean the rest of us have to live there."

Robbie narrowed his eyes. "There's not much to get about you and Zack. After what you did to Kurt, you're lucky to still be alive."

Truman turned around again, grinning widely. "Was that a _threat_?" he said, his tone light with amusement.

Robbie said nothing, glaring at Truman but glad that the focus had (for now) been diverted from Zack.

"Please, I've heard everything that fucking quack doctor says about you," Truman scoffed. "You're just the peacekeeper. You'll only step in if Kurt's upset, and now that Kurt's not even here to _get_ upset, you're pretty much fucking _useless_, aren't you?"

Robbie's jaw tightened. Zack was watching the exchange from his hiding place underneath the platforms with wide eyes, his limbs tensed as if he was getting ready to bolt.

"Even if that's true," Robbie said, keeping Truman's attention on him. "You've still got Craig to answer to."

Truman snorted. "As if I 'answer' to anybody," he drawled. "Craig's just a thorn in my side. He's annoying, but ultimately not much of a problem."

"You want to say that to my face, faggot?" Craig snapped, appearing to Truman's left. Robbie glanced at the jungle gym – Schism was gone.

Truman smirked. "Well, speak of the Devil. You seen Zack? I've got a little present for him."

Under the platforms, Zack moved further away, curling more tightly into himself.

"And by 'present' you mean either more cigarette burns or shoving your dick down his throat," Robbie spat.

"Actually, that wouldn't be that little," Truman replied smoothly. "But I'm flattered that you've thought about my dick, Robbie. Really." He winked.

Robbie grimaced. "You're fucking disgusting."

Truman only shrugged, unperturbed. "Zack doesn't seem to think so. He _loves_ the games we play."

"I'd like to play 'how fast can I chop your nuts off?' with you right now," Craig snarled, edging toward Truman with his fists clenched and his teeth bared.

Truman grinned at him, stepping forward in a manner eerily similar to a wolf moving slowly in for the kill. "You know what my favorite thing is?" he said lowly. "Having my dick buried in something that _tight_. And the way Zack _moves_… Mm." He trailed off for a moment, licking his bottom lip. Craig's eyes were burning. "You should try it sometime. I could be persuaded to lend him to you."

That was the last straw, and Craig lunged. They plowed into the gravel with the force of Craig's attack, and from underneath the platforms, Zack screamed at the top of his lungs.

* * *

><p>Kurt, Tyler, and Eleanor's heads all snapped up in unison, their eyes searching the trees for any signs of life.<p>

"What was that?" asked Tyler, his voice shaking as he hugged Raleigh tighter.

Kurt pulled himself to his feet, listening closely. "I… I think it was Zack," he said. A light breeze (the first movement in the air they had felt since the last time they were at the playground) began to blow through the trees, brushing over Kurt's skin.

There – another scream echoed in the distance, high-pitched and _afraid_.

Eleanor stood up as well, pulling Tyler with her. "That's Zack. We're close."

"Something's wrong," Kurt said, almost to himself.

A third scream ricocheted through the trees and Kurt broke into a run, Eleanor and Tyler quickly following behind. They ran over the carpet of pine needles, kicking up dirt and dodging tree trunks as they went. A fourth scream was carried on the breeze, and then a fifth. Kurt's legs and lungs were on fire and the ground was beginning to slope upwards, making it increasingly difficult to run. He could hear Eleanor and Tyler breathing raggedly as they struggled to keep up.

Zack screamed again, and a gust of wind nearly knocked them off their feet.

After what had to be another ten minutes, the slope abruptly evened out, the trees vanishing as they ran into a grassy meadow. Kurt could see the playground in the distance. The wind had picked up and was whipping at Kurt's hair and clothes and the grass underfoot. He had to squint to see where he was going.

As they finally approached the playground, the telltale sounds of a fistfight reached their ears, and Kurt spotted Truman and Craig locked in a violent wrestle near the carousel. Kurt was about to run over and attempt to pull them apart, but he nearly tripped over Robbie, who was sprawled on the gravel with blood pooling beneath his head.

"Oh my god, _Robbie!_" Kurt cried, dropping to his knees and trying to roll Robbie over. But Robbie coughed, blindly pushing Kurt back as he spit a disturbingly large amount of blood onto the reddened ground.

"What the fuck?" Kurt heard Eleanor mutter behind him.

Kurt couldn't see the extent of the injuries to Robbie's face since Robbie was refusing to roll onto his back (so the blood wouldn't drain into his lungs, Kurt realized) but he could see that Robbie's nose was badly broken and at least three of his teeth had been knocked out. There was a long blackened bruise stretching diagonally from his forehead to the edge of his jaw, shaped suspiciously like a crowbar.

"—gonna kill 'im— _fuck_—" Robbie slurred, red dribbling out of his mouth and nose at an alarming pace.

There was a yell from the other side of the playground, and Kurt looked up to see Truman pinning Craig to the ground, repeatedly punching him hard enough so that Kurt could almost hear Craig's skin breaking. Kurt could see from where he was that Craig was bleeding – not nearly as much as Robbie, but he was definitely losing the fight. Truman's crowbar was lying on the ground next to them, discarded for the moment.

Kurt turned to Eleanor, barely registering that the bruises on her face had completely vanished. "Eleanor, take Tyler and go get Zack. Whatever happens, you _make sure_ they're okay."

Eleanor didn't ask questions or even hesitate. She only nodded once, then grabbed Tyler by the arm and ran toward the platforms.

Kurt stood up, steeling himself as he rushed across the playground. Truman had stopped punching Craig – instead he had picked up the crowbar and was now pressing it against Craig's windpipe, making Craig's mouth open wide as he tried to breathe, his wrists pinned under Truman's knees.

"_HEY!_" Kurt shouted.

Truman turned his head, his eyes meeting Kurt's.

"Remember me?" Kurt snarled, then pulled his fist back and drove it as hard as he could into Truman's face.

There was a loud, gut-wrenching _crack_ and Truman was thrown onto the ground, Craig sucking in a gasp of air as the crowbar was lifted away from his trachea. Kurt shook out his hand, and Truman pulled himself back onto his feet, blood trickling from his nose into his mouth, staining his teeth bright red.

"That's fine," he said, smearing blood away from his upper lip. "Killing you was easy the first time. Shouldn't be too hard to do it this time around." He flashed a reddened grin.

"I wouldn't be too sure," Kurt spat. "Craig taught me a few things."

Truman laughed, completely unfazed. "Craig's old school," he said, a few drops of blood dripping onto his shirt. "A couple of kicks and punches aren't going to do shit. You've got to fight dirty."

Kurt launched himself at Truman, the both of them hitting the gravel hard as Kurt pummeled Truman's abdomen, trying to gain the upper hand. Truman was fighting back, but not hard, and Kurt knew that Truman was only playing with him.

"See?" Truman panted, only slightly out of breath. "That was good; you had the element of surprise. You're learning."

With a growl, Kurt punched him sharply in the kidney, and Truman finally let out a grunt of real pain.

The small victory lasted only for half a second, though, and Truman suddenly lurched up, flipping Kurt over onto his back like a rag doll. In the blink of an eye, Truman was keeping Kurt's arms pinned above his head, straddling Kurt's waist as Kurt struggled to free himself. A few drops of blood from his broken nose fell onto Kurt's forehead.

Abruptly, Truman grinned down at him. "Now, where have I seen _this_ before?" he said, then ground his hips into Kurt's.

Kurt froze.

Suddenly, the crowbar swung into Kurt's peripheral vision and landed with a _whoomph_ on Truman's back, making Truman grunt and nearly lose his balance. Craig was standing just to the side, panting and bleeding and not nearly as strong as he usually was, the crowbar held almost limply in his hands.

"_Stay… away…_" Craig snarled breathlessly, "_…from my kid._"

Truman stood up, but before Kurt could scramble away he drew his foot back and kicked Kurt swiftly between the legs. Kurt let out a yell, stars dancing in front of his eyes as he curled in on himself, trying to somehow alleviate the agonizing pain radiating all over his body and down into his bones. He couldn't move.

"Guess I'll save you for later," Truman told him, then turned to Craig. "Come on, old man. Let's see what you can do."

Craig swung the crowbar at Truman, but the movement was sloppy and Truman easily stepped out of the way. Growling, Craig lifted the bar and gave it another swing, but in a single movement Truman grabbed it in midair and wrenched it out of Craig's hold.

Kurt was trying to pay attention to the fight, but the edges of his vision were fuzzy and his limbs felt paralyzed.

With a solid _thunk_, the crowbar cut through the air and collided with Craig's temple, and he fell to the ground again. Truman pulled the bar up again and drove it into Craig's side, several deafening _cracks_ echoing in Kurt's ears as Craig's ribs snapped. Truman dropped the crowbar to the side and seized Craig around the shoulders, beginning to drag him away (Kurt couldn't see where).

Trying to roll himself over, Kurt coughed and blinked the fuzziness away from his eyes, his hands shaking. The pain was finally starting to subside, but he still couldn't move.

Then, Eleanor appeared beside him, kneeling as she grabbed his shoulders. "Come on, fucktard," she said, though it sounded more gentle than the last time she'd used that name (his ears were roaring, however, so he couldn't be sure). "Get up."

His limbs feeling like they were made of jell-o, Kurt gritted his teeth and hooked an elbow around Eleanor's neck as she pulled him up off the ground, her arm wrapped around his lower back. They stood there for a moment, Eleanor supporting the majority of Kurt's weight as he waited for the pain to evaporate.

"What are you going to do?" Eleanor asked.

Kurt swallowed, still dizzy. "I don't know." He let out a breath, stepping away from Eleanor and swaying on his feet for a second, his legs still slightly wobbly. He shook his head, blinking and steeling his nerves. The pain from between his legs wasn't entirely gone, but it wasn't crippling any more. That was enough.

"Keep Zack and Tyler safe," he told Eleanor, then grabbed the crowbar from where Truman had dropped it and ran after him.

By now, Truman had dragged Craig over to the swing set and hoisted him up by a swing chain around his neck, leaving him hanging like a pig in a butcher shop. Craig was kicking and trying to work his way free, but the chain was tightening around his throat like a noose and his ribs were still broken. Truman had turned around and was lighting a cigarette.

As Kurt tried to run faster, gripping the crowbar tightly in his hand, Truman blew out a billow of smoke before turning back to Craig. Kurt mentally planned out his attack – he would run up behind Truman and hit him over the head with the crowbar as hard as he could. That would at least give him a few seconds before Truman could recover, and in that space Kurt could gain the upper hand.

He watched as Truman lifted the cigarette and pressed the burning end to Craig's forehead, directly between his eyes.

And Craig _erupted _into flames.

Kurt froze in his tracks, the crowbar falling from his hands and the breath leaving his lungs. A high-pitched scream like nothing he'd ever heard before sliced through the air. Craig was thrashing as the fire gripped him, the shape of his body barely visible. The light rippled as tongues of flame licked along the swing set bar.

Craig_ screamed_ and _screamed _and _screamed_.

Kurt thought he could hear Tyler and Zack crying, and Eleanor yelling Craig's name, but above the roar of the fire it was difficult to hear anything at all.

It felt like an hour before the screams tapered off and died away, Craig's body no longer fighting to escape, but Kurt couldn't do anything except watch with wide eyes and empty lungs. Eventually, the flames burned out and disappeared into the air, and the only thing left behind was the chain noose that had circled Craig's neck.

There was no trace of Craig left.

Truman walked over to Kurt, the blood from his nose dried over his mouth and chin, his cigarette hanging from his lips. "Great show, huh?" he said. "I should've brought s'mores."

Kurt looked Truman square in the eye. "I'm going to kill you," he promised.

Truman smiled, his teeth still bloody and red. "Well, that should be interesting."

Then Kurt felt blackness wrap around his mouth and nose, and he was yanked backwards into the dark.

* * *

><p>The first thing Kurt heard was the rattling sound of several dice being rolled, and then a voice that was somewhat indistinct. Blinking, Kurt looked down to see he was sitting on the floor of a room that was almost unfamiliar, his legs crossed.<p>

"No, that's a full house," said a second voice from behind him. "Twenty-five points."

_Finn._

"Oh. Your roll," replied the first voice – _Dad._

The dice shook again, rattling loudly. "Crap, I was going for sixes," said Finn.

Kurt breathed in and out, trying to steady his thudding heart as he twisted around. His dad and Finn were sitting on his bed (and Kurt finally realized that they were in his room at the hospital), playing Yahtzee. Burt glanced at him for only a second.

"Hey, Zack, you want to play Yahtzee?" he asked as Kurt stood up, his joints feeling stiff.

Finn smiled at him. "You can be on my team. I'm kicking Burt's butt."

_Why don't they recognize me?_

Kurt stared at them for a moment. "It's me," he said, his vocal chords feeling hoarse and unused.

Burt and Finn's gazes whipped to Kurt in unison, and Burt lurched to his feet, knocking the Yahtzee tray and dice to the ground. Suddenly, Kurt was engulfed in a crushing embrace and Burt was shaking— Was he _crying?_ Finn had stood up too, staring at Kurt with an expression that Kurt had never seen before, a mix of fear and relief and _shock_. He didn't like it.

"What's going on?" he said, and Burt finally pulled back, his eyes red and watering. Kurt had only seen his father cry a handful of times. It was unsettling.

"Y-you—" Burt started, choking up. He looked tired, more tired than Kurt could remember. "You're okay? You're sure you're okay?"

"Dad, what are you talking about? What happened?" Kurt looked to Finn again, but Finn seemed to be stuck where he was. "What—?" Kurt's heart twisted in his chest as he realized what would make his dad and brother act like this.

_No. No, no, no…_

"Wh-what's the date?" he asked shakily, not wanting to know the answer.

Burt just looked _sad_. "It's May fifth."

Kurt didn't move, his vision going blurry. "…No, it's February," he said.

Burt shook his head, his hands on Kurt's arms. "Kurt, it's May."

"No," Kurt shook his head, his voice wavering. He ran a hand through his hair, jerking it away when he realized his hair was much longer than it was supposed to be. His breath quickened.

"It's okay," Burt said, but he was still crying and it was hard for Kurt to believe him.

Kurt could feel the tears on his cheeks and it was getting harder for him to breathe, and _God_, the look on Finn's face wasn't helping. Kurt's palms clamped over his mouth. Burt pulled Kurt against his chest again, a hand on the back of Kurt's head, just holding him as tightly as he could. Squeezing his eyes shut, Kurt buried his face in his father's shoulder, his ribs heaving without drawing in air.

"It's okay," Burt said again, and Kurt wanted to yell and scream and beat his fists against the wall.

As it was, though, he only sobbed into his father's shirt and tried not to let the darkness snatch him back.


	71. Spaces And Relative Heights

_Spaces And Relative Heights_

Finn was woken up by the sharp sunlight stabbing through his window on Saturday morning, and he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, glancing at the clock on his bedside table. It was barely seven-thirty – he must have forgotten to shut the blinds the previous evening. On any other day, he would have rolled over and shoved his head back under the pillows, but today he immediately pushed the blankets back and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt before heading downstairs.

It was May 12th, one week since Kurt had opened his eyes and been _himself_ for the first time in months. One week since they'd finally been able to talk to him again, knowing that he could actually hear them and would remember the conversation later. Dr. McManus had kept Kurt at the hospital for the past week, making sure that Kurt wasn't about to implode or disappear again, but he'd pulled some strings and gotten Kurt a pass to spend a few days at home. They'd brought him home yesterday afternoon, and that evening dinner had been almost unnaturally quiet.

So, for the first time since late February, there were four people in the Hudson-Hummel house again.

Finn wasn't sure if he wanted to count the alters in that tally.

In the kitchen, Carole was brewing her morning cup of tea. "You're up early," she said, glancing at him over her shoulder.

He yawned as if to illustrate her point, scratching at the back of his head. "Yeah. Where's Kurt?"

"He's out on the porch."

Finn glanced at the front door. "Is he okay?"

Carole nodded, dropping her tea bag into the trash. "As far as I know," she replied. "I think he's just getting used to being back."

(It was unclear whether she meant back at home or back in his own body, but Finn didn't ask her to clarify.)

"Burt's not here?" he asked.

"No, he had a meeting with Mr. Berry this morning."

Finn frowned. For the past two months since John Truman's arrest Burt and Hiram Berry had been meeting every week, compiling their case against him as the trial date approached. "Something wrong?"

"No, no," Carole assured him. "It's just trial prep."

"Oh."

"Are you hungry? I can make you some eggs or something."

"Yeah, thanks. I'm going to go check on Kurt."

Finn pushed through the front door and walked out onto the porch in his bare feet, a light spring breeze buffeting his clothes as he went to sink onto the bench next to Kurt. It was strange to see Kurt in his own clothes again, though it was still a far cry from the outfits he'd worn on a regular basis when he was still in school; just jeans and a grey shirt that was probably the plainest item in Kurt's bureau.

It was Kurt who spoke first, his face worn and slightly shadowed even in the sunlight. "I still expected to see snow this morning," he said quietly, surveying the green lawn and Carole's rosebushes.

"Must be weird," Finn agreed, leaning back.

"I don't know." Kurt gave a halfhearted shrug. "I suppose it's not really that different from missing a day or two."

Finn didn't say anything, watching a few bees digging through the roses.

Eventually Kurt let out a breath and leaned back beside Finn, his arms hugging his abdomen. "Finn, what happened while I was gone?" he asked, sounding like he didn't really want Finn to answer.

"With what?"

"With the alters."

"Oh, uh… well…" Finn's stomach clenched. He didn't know how detailed Kurt wanted this information to be, but Finn knew that, personally, he'd rather not think about it at all. "Zack was out the most, but he wasn't really talking to anyone. Truman was… really scary."

Kurt frowned, his forehead knitting in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Finn drew a deep breath, looking out over the road. "He kept bragging that he killed you, and you weren't coming back, and Craig and Robbie were saying you were dead and we…" He stopped to pull in another breath, swallowing. "We didn't know what to do."

Kurt's mouth tightened, and Finn wasn't sure what else he was supposed to say.

"Finn, I'm so sorry about what Truman did to you," Kurt said, his voice wavering slightly. His shoulders stiffened, like he didn't know how Finn would respond.

Finn didn't meet Kurt's eye, still staring out at the road. He didn't how to react to any of this. For the past two months and however many weeks that Kurt had been gone, Zack had been in control nearly every time Finn visited, and even then he wouldn't speak. And now Kurt was back, and it was as if he'd risen from the dead.

"Are… are we okay?" Kurt ventured, his words shaking.

Finn forced himself to swallow and pat Kurt's shoulder. "Water under the bridge, man."

* * *

><p>After Finn had eaten breakfast and Kurt had finished his coffee (he wasn't hungry), Carole sent the two of them to the supermarket to pick up a few things missing from the kitchen. Kurt watched Lima pass by out of the passenger side window of Finn's truck, almost unnervingly quiet. So quiet, in fact, that when he did finally break the silence, Finn nearly jumped in his seat.<p>

"Does anyone else know I'm here?"

Finn glanced at Kurt for a second before refocusing on the road ahead. "What, in the club? Uh… no, I thought I should wait and see if you wanted to see them."

Kurt's mouth twitched, still watching out the window. "Did any of them know I was gone?"

"No," Finn replied. "I didn't tell them anything."

"Okay."

Finn couldn't tell if that was good or bad.

* * *

><p>In the store, Finn pulled out the shopping list Carole had given them and told Kurt to track down chocolate chips and vanilla while he stalked the dairy shelves for butter and eggs, and left Kurt to his own devices (but not before asking him to <em>make absolute sure<em> that he was okay on his own).

Kurt figured he could handle grabbing two items from the baking aisle without transitioning. There wasn't much to stress over when it came to cookies, after all.

As he headed down the candy aisle on his way to the baking section, however, a voice from the back of his head cut through his thoughts, making him halt in his tracks.

_Hey, bubble butt! Grab me a Twix, will you?_

Kurt swallowed, feeling as if a colony of worms was squirming through the inner workings of his gut. He hated feeling Truman inside him, taking up space in his head and in his chest and his stomach and his fingers, and he hated it even more now that it was ice cold where Craig had been.

"You're getting sloppy with your insults," Kurt muttered, as bravely as he could.

A chuckle, and then _Who says it was an insult?_

Kurt gritted his teeth, trying not to let himself throw up in the middle of the candy aisle. His fingernails dug into his palms as his sinuses compressed.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder, and he jumped, drawing a sharp intake of breath. Finn was standing next to him with a basket in his hand, watching him warily. "…Kurt?" he said, and Kurt swallowed at how _obvious_ it was that Finn couldn't tell who he was looking at.

"Sorry." Kurt let out a breath. "Spaced out."

"Okay. Just making sure you're still here."

"Yes, I'm still here," Kurt snapped, feeling an unexpected surge of anger underneath his ribs. "Can't recognize your own brother?"

Finn blinked. "Are you okay?"

"I'm _fine_," Kurt spat.

"What's wrong, dude?"

Kurt's eyes narrowed. "Don't call me 'dude', Finn. You know I hate it."

Finn's expression hardened, almost matching Kurt's. "You only hate it when there's something bothering you, _Kurt_. I'm just trying to help, okay?" Kurt opened his mouth to retort, but Finn cut him off again. "And FYI? I haven't seen anyone except Zack since you left. So, yeah, you're a little hard to recognize."

Kurt's mouth clamped shut and he looked away. That had _stung_. The worms in his intestines recoiled as if they'd been burned.

Finn let out a heavy breath. "Are they talking again? Is that why you're upset?"

Refusing to meet Finn's eye, Kurt crossed his arms and clenched his teeth. He already had enough people in his head; he didn't need Finn in there too.

"Kurt, _talk _to me."

Forcing his nerves to calm and his fists to uncurl, Kurt sighed and shook his head very slightly, chewing the inside of his cheek. "I'll be in the car," he said, then turned and walked back the way he'd come, leaving Finn to finish the shopping.

Striding across the parking lot, Truman's voice stabbed through his ears and down into his throat again. _Turning into quite the snap turtle, aren't you? Finn didn't look happy._

"Shut up," Kurt spat, yanking open the door to Finn's truck and climbing into the passenger seat.

_Hey, I'm just saying you might need a little therapy is all. Anger management could come in handy._

"Shut the _fuck _up!" Kurt shouted abruptly, kicking the dashboard in frustration. He sat back, breathing hard as his fingernails dug into his palms of their own accord.

_Jeez, Bruce Banner, lighten up._

"SHUT UP!" Kurt screamed, nearly begging as his hands curled over his ears. He could feel tears on his face but his brain felt like it was on fire and he _couldn't think_.

_Kurt. Breathe._

That had been Eleanor's voice, cutting through Truman's sneering drawl. Kurt squeezed the air out of his lungs as slowly as he could, then grit his teeth and pulled in a breath through his nose, leaning his head back against the seat.

_Let me and Robbie handle Truman,_ said Eleanor.

_I heard that,_ snapped Truman.

_Just breathe._

Kurt closed his eyes, working to let the tendons in his neck and wrists release and concentrating on the (still _very _uneven) circulation of air through his lungs and throat. He couldn't hear Eleanor's voice or Truman's any longer, but his heart was still racing and his hands still shaking.

Swallowing and wiping his face on his sleeve, Kurt sat back and kept his eyes shut, waiting for Finn to come back so he could go home.


	72. Bleeding In Infrared

_Bleeding In Infrared_

Lunchtime on Saturday was always a little crowded at Breadstix, but with some of Cooper's charm and flirtatious winking, the Anderson brothers managed to secure their favorite table in the middle of the restaurant. Cooper was currently home for a two-week vacation after Free Credit Ratings Today had terminated his contract and "gone in a different direction," and Blaine could easily tell that Cooper's pride was sorely bruised. But his pride would be even more bruised they were to talk about it in any depth, so they sat at their table discussing anything _except_ the commercial.

"Anyways, I'm going to take some time off from acting," Cooper was saying through a mouthful of Caesar salad. "I'll find some kind of grunt job in L.A. with crappy pay for a few months. Should be a good experience for future roles."

Blaine chuckled. "Never pictured you doing grunt work before," he teased.

"Aw, come on," Cooper protested. "Construction workers are sexy."

"If you say so," Blaine laughed, putting down his fork as his phone vibrated in his pocket. He nearly choked when a text from Santana illuminated the screen.

_since when is kurt back in town?_

Cooper noticed Blaine's sudden freeze. "What's the matter?" he asked with a frown.

Blaine didn't respond, sending a reply to Santana with the only thing that came to mind.

_What?_

_ britt and i just saw him walking out of Brackett's. did u know he was back?_

_ No._

"Bee, what's wrong?" Cooper pressed.

"Kurt's back," Blaine said softly, still staring at his phone as if he weren't entirely sure that his text exchange with Santana hadn't been a hallucination.

Cooper's eyebrows climbed to his hairline. "He's out of the hospital?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Does that mean he's all better?"

"I don't know."

"Well, they wouldn't let him out if he wasn't better, would they?"

"_I don't know._"

Cooper raised his hands placatingly. "Okay, sorry."

Blaine let out a heavy breath and shoved his phone back into his pocket, chewing on the insides of his cheeks.

"So what are you going to do?" Cooper prodded, his Caesar salad forgotten.

Blaine gave his brother a look. "Coop, if he wanted to see me, he would've let me know he was back. I wrote him a letter back in the beginning of March and I haven't heard anything. I don't think he even read it."

"Maybe he just didn't know how to respond." Blaine opened his mouth to argue but Cooper cut him off. "I'm just saying, this isn't exactly a normal situation. Maybe he wants to see you but doesn't know how to ask."

Blaine frowned, almost irritated. "Don't you think we should at least know if he's okay before we start planning a date?"

Cooper shrugged, swallowing a swig from his diet Coke and munching on the ice. "Sure. Call him up and ask him."

Blaine shook his head. "It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"Coop, you've never met him," Blaine insisted. "You've never seen him switch. Do you have any idea how scary the contrast is?"

"Bee, I'm just going by what I see here, okay?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You were _so_ happy when you were with him, Blaine," Cooper said, catching Blaine completely by surprise. "I could hear it over the phone. You transferred to a school in a district where you don't even _live_ just to be with him, and on top of that, it's been almost five months and you're still hung up on him."

Blaine stared at him.

Cooper only gave another shrug. "Maybe it's worth one phone call."

"Mom and Dad would be pissed."

"You bet they would," Cooper nodded. "But screw them. Do what you want, once you figure it out."

* * *

><p>Even though it was barely noon, Burt was already exhausted. He'd spent the week in Washington and then flown back to bring Kurt home from the hospital on Friday afternoon. He hadn't slept a wink last night, constantly listening for any sounds from down the hall that would indicate Kurt had disappeared again. But it had remained silent all night (save for Carole telling Burt to go to sleep on more than one occasion) and in the morning he'd stuck his head into Kurt's room to see him in what appeared to be a peaceful sleep. Burt had had to leave for Hiram's before Kurt woke up, however, so needless to say he was looking forward to seeing Kurt once he and Finn returned from the store.<p>

"Burt, you're fidgeting," Carole observed from her seat at the kitchen table, where she was sorting through a substantially sized stack of bills.

"Aren't they taking a little long?" Burt asked, glancing out the window toward the driveway. He turned his coffee mug in his hands.

"No, they're not," she replied patiently without looking up. "It's Saturday; everyone's doing their shopping now. The lines are bound to be long."

Burt huffed, sipping his coffee and trying to force himself not to worry.

After a minute of silence, Carole glanced up from the bills. "Burt, we're going to have to talk to him about the trial today."

Burt nodded, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "Yeah, I know." He didn't want to think about how Kurt might react, nor did he want to think of the stress Kurt would undoubtedly shoulder as the trial headed forward.

"We also have to tell him about the car."

"_Crap._" Burt mentally kicked himself for having forgotten. He sighed. "Well, I guess since it's not in the driveway Kurt's either figured out that we sold it or he thinks I took it in for an oil change."

"He'll understand."

"I know that. I just wish we could give him something other than bad news for once."

The rumbling of an engine sounded from outside as Finn's truck pulled into the driveway, parking next to Carole's minivan. Burt leaned to watch out the window, immediately frowning when Kurt jumped out of the car and strode stiffly up to the house without helping Finn with the grocery bags (there were only two and Finn didn't _need_ help, but it was still odd). The screen door banged shut loudly behind Kurt as he entered the kitchen.

"Kurt, are you—?"

Kurt stomped straight past, disappearing into the hallway. A moment later his footsteps climbed the stairs. Burt and Carole exchanged a glance.

Finn shouldered the front door open and dropped the bags onto the counter island, greeted immediately with Burt asking "What happened?"

Finn paused. "I'm not really sure…"

"Was that Robbie?"

"No. He didn't switch. He just kind of… I don't know. He started acting upset when we were in the store."

"Why?" Burt pressed. "What'd you say?"

Finn almost flinched. "Nothing! He just snapped at me out of nowhere." He hesitated for a second, then added, "I-I think the alters might've been talking to him."

Burt sighed. "But he didn't switch?"

"No."

"Okay," Burt said, setting his mug on the counter. "I'll go talk to him."

Upstairs, Burt knocked on Kurt's door. "Kurt, you okay?"

There was a second of silence in which Burt wasn't certain he'd receive a response, but then Kurt spoke. "I don't really want to talk right now, Dad."

Burt pushed the door open. "Well, too bad," he said gently. Kurt was sitting on his bed with his back propped up against the headboard. Burt walked over and sank onto the edge of the mattress next to him, and Kurt drew his knees up. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Kurt said flatly, not looking Burt in the eye.

Burt didn't say anything, studying Kurt's face. It was hard to see how much _older_ Kurt looked after the past four or five months (Burt wasn't entirely sure of how long it had been since things had spiralled out of control).

Kurt shifted, uncomfortable with his father staring at him. "What?"

Burt tried to phrase what he wanted to say as mildly as he could. "Kurt, you don't have a right to leave me out of this," he said. "It goes both ways, remember?"

Kurt swallowed, still avoiding Burt's gaze.

"I know you're having a hard time adjusting to being back, but I can't help you if you don't talk to me. So, I'll ask again – what's going on? What happened at the store?"

Kurt's mouth tightened, his fingernails clicking against each other in his lap. It was unclear whether Kurt actually wanted to speak or not, but either way he was having a hard time doing so.

"Were the alters talking to you?" Burt prompted.

"Yes," Kurt replied softly.

"Who was it?"

Another swallow. "Truman," Kurt admitted. "I hear him the most."

Burt tried not to think about what that could mean, instead asking "What does he say?"

Kurt shrugged. "Nothing, really. He just teases me. It's more annoying than anything else."

Burt couldn't tell if that was entirely true or if Kurt was playing it down, but at least he now had an idea of what was bothering Kurt. He sighed, steeling his nerves. "Well, I know you don't want to talk, but we need to have a little family meeting."

Kurt frowned. "What for?"

"There are a few things we need to discuss, and all four of us should be there for it."

* * *

><p>Finn had never liked the sound of "family meeting" – the last time he'd heard it was when his mother finally told him his father was a druggie and not a war hero, and the time before that had been Burt explaining for the first time what exactly was wrong with Kurt. "Family meeting" never ended well.<p>

So, Finn was tense. He sat in the armchair in the living room while Kurt sat with Carole on the couch, and Burt stood by the TV (Finn had a feeling Burt was only standing because he was too nervous about the upcoming conversation to sit still). Carole was holding Kurt's hand and it was obvious that Kurt could tell there was something potentially bad coming up.

When Burt spoke, he shoved his hands into his pockets, possibly to keep them from anxiously clenching. "Kurt, you probably saw that your car's not in the drive…" he started.

Kurt's eyebrows immediately snapped together. "It's not in the shop?"

Burt winced. "We had to sell it, Kurt. I'm sorry, but it was a good car and it was going to waste," he said. Finn watched Kurt, trying to determine just how much this would upset him. "We need all the money help we can get, and we couldn't even afford that car when we bought it."

Kurt didn't say anything, his facial expression tightening only slightly.

"Kurt, the last time anyone used that car was in January," Burt continued, still trying to make his point. "And it was Truman stealing it to go God knows where."

Kurt flinched at that, but said, "I get it."

"You're sure?"

"Dad, I understand," Kurt insisted, sounding frostier than was probably necessary.

"Okay." Burt coughed and shifted his weight to his other leg, then sat down in the other armchair. "The other thing we need to talk about is… a little more sensitive."

Carole tense visibly next to Kurt, her fingers squeezing around his hand, and he glanced at her in confusion. Finn braced himself, knowing exactly what was coming and wishing he were _anywhere_ else. "What do you mean?" asked Kurt.

Burt let out a huff of breath as if it was burning his lungs. "They, uh, found him. The man who—"

"They found Franklin?" Kurt started, catching all three of them by surprise.

"He was arrested in March," Burt said, his voice shaking almost imperceptibly. Finn didn't know if it was from fear of how Kurt might react or from relief that he'd been saved from having to say _the man who raped you when I wasn't here_ _I'm so sorry I love you but this is my fault I won't blame you if you hate me because I hate me too._

"The trial's coming up in a couple of weeks."

Kurt's face contorted, more from confusion than anything else. "H-how— How did they find him?" he wanted to know. "What happened?"

Carole stepped in, her fingers squeezing Kurt's hand again. "Zack was able to tell us his real name, and then we found his address in your mother's things."

At that, Kurt's head whipped around to stare at Carole, his eyes wide. "What does Mom have to do with it?"

"Oh, Jesus, you—" Burt ran a hand over his mouth, choking on his words. Finn swallowed. "You weren't here when—" Burt's jaw clenched for a moment before he was able to force himself to finish. "He was a college friend of your mom's who babysat you for a couple weeks when you were little. I'm so _sorry_, Kurt—"

Kurt eyes were glassy, his voice tighter than a piano chord. "Who is he?"

"Kurt…" Burt swallowed. "His name is John Truman."

Kurt didn't move.

"Honey, if you need to switch, that's okay," Carole cut in quickly. "You don't need to fight that right now."

Finn tensed even further as Kurt's eyes slid shut, his shoulders curling forward, and he waited for Eleanor to scream or Zack to cry. He knew Burt and Carole were expecting the same, but when Kurt spoke it was miraculously his own voice.

"I'm going to be sick," he said, barely audible.

Burt immediately got up and pulled Kurt to his feet, looping an arm around Kurt's shoulders and walking him quickly down the hall to the bathroom. Carole lurched to her feet and followed them, casting an almost terrified look over her shoulder at Finn.

Finn stayed where he was, his hands tightly clasped in his lap to keep his fingernails from cutting into his palms. He heard Kurt retch loudly into the toilet, already fighting to breathe.

"It's okay, kiddo, I've got you," said Burt, loud enough for Finn to hear from the living room. "You're okay. You're okay. You're okay."

Kurt had begun to sob, and Finn flinched as the tone of Kurt's cries abruptly changed, like a needle skipping across the surface of a spinning record. Finn swallowed, struggling to keep his stomach steady. He wasn't used to this anymore.

A scream ripped through the air from down the hall, quickly followed by another, and Finn felt as if he was trying to breathe through water. His gut was twisting and coiling and clenching and he didn't know what to do with the rock that was stopping his lungs from getting oxygen.

"_Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream—_"

"It's okay, Zack, you're— _Ah!_"

Burt's voice was abruptly cut off by the sound of Kurt's fists colliding with his father's chest.

"_Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily—_"

Finn's mind seemed to switch to autopilot then, and he didn't realize he was walking away until he'd grabbed his car keys off the kitchen counter. He didn't stop, though, and allowed himself to shove his way out the front door, his lungs stretching as he rushed to his truck. With Kurt's screams echoing in his ears, Finn pulled the truck out of the driveway and sped away from the house.

He didn't pay that much attention to where he was going, driving in a haze. It was at least fifteen minutes before he forced himself to pull over and stop the truck on the curb (not noticing that he'd jumped onto the route heading southward out of town). He gripped the steering wheel tightly, resting his forehead on his fingers and willing his heart to stop thudding in such a horrible rhythm.

He'd forgotten what this felt like, when home went from _home_ to Hell in the space of a few seconds.

* * *

><p>"<em>Hey, this is Finn's phone – leave a message at the beep.<em>"

Blaine sighed and ended the call, dropping his phone onto the kitchen counter. Cooper raised his eyebrows expectantly, swallowing the last of the beer he'd pulled out of the bottom of their fridge.

"Well?"

"He didn't pick up."

"So…"

"Kurt's still sick."

Cooper made a face. "You got that from a voicemail?"

Blaine huffed, already not wanting to think about this. He'd gotten used to picturing Kurt as something distant; he wasn't sure if he wanted that to change back. "If Kurt was okay or if he wanted to see me, then Finn wouldn't have ignored my call."

"You have no idea if he ignored you," Cooper countered. "Maybe he just left his phone somewhere."

"I don't know why you're still on this."

"Because you're _miserable_, Bee!"

Blaine's frown deepened. "I'm worried about Kurt, but I'm not _miserable_, Cooper."

"Well, that's complete bullcrap."

Blaine huffed.

"Maybe Finn didn't answer because he's at the dentist or something," Cooper insisted. "You don't know."

"Neither do you!"

"Exactly!" Blaine's jaw clacked shut. "Look, Bee, nobody's saying you have to date him, or even _see_ him. Just stop making all these assumptions when you have no idea what's going on."

"What do you expect me to do?!" Blaine demanded in exasperation.

Cooper set his empty beer bottle solidly on the counter behind him with a loud _thunk_. "You're being a coward, Blaine."

"Great," Blaine said dryly, almost rolling his eyes. "You're making me feel really confident about this, Coop – that's just great."

Cooper only shrugged in response. "I'm just trying to help, Bee. If you want to keep running away, that's up to you."

Blaine blinked, and Cooper cast him a knowing look before striding out of the room and saying something about calling his agent. Staying where he stood, Blaine swallowed and tried to stop his mind from picking up speed.

_I ran, Kurt._

He felt bile rise in his throat as his stomach practiced gymnastics in his gut.

_ I ran, and it's something I regret._

_ You just didn't bother to answer your damn phone._

_ You're kind of an asshole._

Forcing himself to take deep breaths, Blaine pushed the echoes out of his head.

* * *

><p>Finn wasn't really sure how long he'd stayed out before finally pulling his truck back onto the road and driving home, but as he walked into the kitchen, he was immediately confronted with a hollow silence where there'd been only shouting before. He didn't know if that was a good sign, but it didn't feel like it.<p>

"Finn, where the hell were you?"

Finn jumped as Burt walked in from the living room, probably having heard the front door shut. "I… went out to get some air."

"We called you three times."

"I-I forgot my phone here," Finn stammered, knowing he didn't really have an excuse for running out. "Sorry."

Burt sighed, planting his hands on his hips. "Look, Finn, I know this is hard to deal with, for you especially. But when Kurt has a switch like that, I need to know that I can count on you being here. You're his brother; you have to help keep him safe."

Finn nodded, avoiding Burt's eye. "…Is he okay?" he asked quietly, tugging nervously on his sleeve.

"I don't know," Burt answered, and Finn felt a stab of guilt at the grief lacing Burt's words. "Zack's still out. We had to put him in his room, but he's been quiet for about twenty minutes now."

"I'll go check on him," Finn said, leaving his keys on the counter.

"Be careful."

Upstairs, it was more than silent. It felt to Finn as if any sounds that might have belonged there had been sucked into the walls and floor and ceiling, and he was breathing in a vacuum. Kurt's door was tied shut.

Pulling as much air into his lungs as he could, Finn pressed his ear to the door, listening for any signs of movement. "Zack?" he called softly. "You all right?"

No response.

"Zack, I'm coming in."

His heart thudding in his ears and chest and fingertips, Finn pulled the knot out of the rope looped around the doorknob and slowly, hesitantly pushed the door open. Kurt was sitting in the corner of the room below the window, pressed against the wall and curled about as small as he could possibly make himself. He'd ducked his head so that his face was hidden behind his arms, and his arms were covered in reddened bite marks. Letting out a long breath, Finn shut the door behind himself and walked over to Kurt, sinking onto the floor as close as he dared to get. At the sound of Finn sitting down, Kurt flinched and curled more tightly into the corner.

Finn watched his brother for a moment, unsure of what he could possibly do to bring Kurt back or, at the very least, pull Zack out of this terrifyingly catatonic state. Kurt's eyes stared back at Finn warily from somewhere behind the cracked shell of Zack's paralysis.

For a split second, it almost seemed like Kurt _recognized_ him.

Tentatively, Finn extended his hand, reaching out towards Kurt and carefully gauging his reaction. Kurt stiffened, drawing back.

"No, no—" he muttered, turning his head away.

"It's okay," Finn said quietly, not reaching any further but not drawing his hand back either. He kept his hand stretched to the halfway mark between them, waiting for Kurt to adjust to the change in the space around him. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Nearly five minutes passed before Kurt's breathing evened out again, his shoulders shaking only slightly. Finn reached further, more gradually this time.

Kurt immediately shrank back. "No, no, don't—"

Finn's fingers landed on the back of Kurt's hand, not grabbing or even gently holding – just touching enough for Kurt to feel. Kurt froze, staring at their hands.

"Is that okay?" Finn asked, unable to tell if Kurt's response was out of fear or incomprehension.

Kurt breathing quickened again, his chest beginning to heave. A few tears escaped down his cheeks.

"All right, I'm sorry," Finn said, lifting his hand away.

He was caught completely off-guard when Kurt's arm whipped out, grabbing Finn's hand before he could pull it back. Kurt's fingers tightened more than Finn had previously thought possible for Zack, making it clear that he was _not letting go._

"Zack?" Finn said, not sure what he was asking.

Keeping his grip on Finn's hand, Kurt wrapped his other arm around his legs, pressing his forehead against his knees as his shoulders shook and he began to sob. His knuckles went white around Finn's.

An hour later, Burt found both boys in the same position, their hands still tightly grasping each other's and Kurt asleep against the wall.


	73. Tell The Repo Man

_Tell The Repo Man_

Kurt shivered, his pajamas feeling thin against his skin as he sat at the tiny kitchen table, absentmindedly running a green marker in circles over an otherwise blank sheet of paper. He fidgeted in his seat, swallowing and trying not to wince when a bolt of searing pain shot upwards through his spine. It had been almost a week (he thought) since this all started and he still had a hard time remembering not to move.

He stiffened as Franklin walked into the room. "_What do you want for lunch, kiddo?_"

"I'm not hungry." Kurt made sure to keep his eyes on his drawing, not lifting his head in case he accidentally looked at Franklin's face.

"_You didn't eat breakfast._"

"I wasn't hungry in the morning either."

Kurt flinched as Franklin braced a hand against the table, leaning down almost to eye-level. The marker stopped, a green ink dot bleeding out from its tip. "_Kurt, I told your parents I'd take care of you. You have to eat something._"

Avoiding Franklin's eye, Kurt pressed his mouth shut.

"_So, what do you want to eat?_"

"Nothing."

Franklin huffed. "_That's not an option._"

Kurt's toes curled, hanging in the air six inches above the ground since the chair was too big for him. "I'm not hungry," he said again. The thought of food made him feel like throwing up.

"_If you don't choose, then I'm going to, and you might not like it._"

Kurt didn't say anything. Franklin couldn't make him eat.

"_No? Okay._"

Kurt remained stock-still, staring at the table while Franklin stirred a pot on the stove. Five minutes later, a steaming bowl was dropped in front of him and Franklin shoved Kurt's drawings to the side.

"I'm not hungry," Kurt repeated, pointedly not reaching for the spoon.

"_You said you loved mac and cheese._"

"I don't want it."

There was a long pause, and Kurt felt the hairs on the back of his neck slowly stand up, his gut clenching.

"_Eat the mac and cheese._"

Kurt pushed it away.

Abruptly, Franklin's big hand grabbed Kurt by the jaw, forcing his mouth open. Kurt kicked and squirmed as a too-big spoonful of soggy and hot macaroni and runny cheese was dumped into his mouth, immediately falling to the back of his throat. He coughed, trying to spit it out as it burned his tongue and esophagus, but Franklin pushed his mouth closed again.

"_Swallow._"

The macaroni caught in Kurt's throat and he began to choke, feeling droplets of the cheese and milk run into his lungs. He couldn't breathe.

"_Come on, kiddo. Swallow._"

Kurt reached up, dug his nails into Franklin's arm, and yanked down.

"_Ow! You fucking scratched me!_"

Kurt fell off the chair as Franklin dropped him, coughing and spitting bright yellow bile onto the linoleum floor. He looked back up just in time to see Franklin looming over him, and scrabbled to move out of Franklin's reach.

He wasn't fast enough, and Franklin snatched the scruff of Kurt's pajamas, dragging him back onto his feet. Panicking, Kurt managed to squirm around and sink his teeth into Franklin's wrist, biting down as hard as he could. He dropped to the floor again, immediately scrambling back and away.

"_Get back here!_"

There was a loud _crash_ as Franklin furiously kicked over a chair and Kurt yelped, flinching back. Franklin lunged forward, gripping Kurt by the back of his neck and dragging him back to the table. Forcing his jaw open a second time, Franklin ignored the spoon and used his hand to shove a still-too-hot lump of macaroni into Kurt's mouth. He pressed his palm over Kurt's lips as Kurt's eyes watered and the food burned the insides of his cheeks.

Kurt swallowed, feeling the agonizing heat slowly move down his throat to his stomach, scalding him from the inside.

Franklin pushed another handful into Kurt's mouth. "_Swallow._"

Kurt choked again, and his belly heaved.

Franklin let go. Kurt clung to the table, doubling over and emptying his stomach onto the floor.

"_How about we try this again?_" Franklin offered.

Kurt gagged, dry heaving and crying and trying to breathe.

"_You want to eat on your own?_"

Kurt was sobbing too hard to be able to respond, and Franklin repeated his question. Kurt flinched at the forceful tone.

"_Do you want to eat on your own, or do you want me to help you?_" Franklin asked slowly.

Kurt stood still for a moment, breathing unevenly between sobs and making sure he was looking _away_ from Franklin. "I'll eat on m-my own," he choked out, his words hitching.

"_Good,_" Franklin said, his tone suddenly evaporating into one that was softly consoling. Kurt jumped and nearly threw up again when Franklin's hand gently patted his back the way Dad did whenever Kurt was upset.

Franklin stepped back, making it only slightly easier to breathe, and Kurt grabbed his chance. He turned on his heel and _bolted_.

"_HEY!_"

Terror clawing at his skull, Kurt pretended not to hear Franklin's shout and ran as fast as he could up the stairs and down the hall. He didn't go into his room, instead running into his parents' room and shutting the door behind him. He could hear Franklin's feet pounding up the stairs, and in a panic he dropped to all fours and slid under the bed, squirming in the narrow space until he was pressed all the way back against the wall.

"_KURT!_" Franklin yelled from the hallway.

Kurt flinched, wrapping his fingers around the wire mesh holding the mattress over his head. He could hear Franklin in his own bedroom, trying to find him, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He clamped his teeth around his forearm to try to stop himself from crying too loudly, but it must not have worked very well since the door banged open and Franklin's feet appeared beside the bed.

Kurt screamed.

* * *

><p>The morning sunlight momentarily blinded Kurt as he sat bolt upright in bed, his chest heaving and his forehead beaded with sweat. He wasn't sure what had woken him up, but judging from the way his sheets had been tossed and tangled around his legs, whatever dream he'd been having must have been unpleasant. Not even trying to remember it, he pulled himself out of bed and wiped at his forehead, wrinkling his nose at the smell when he lifted his arm.<p>

Peeling off the sweatpants and t-shirt he'd been sleeping in, he grabbed a towel from his closet and went down the hall to shower. Standing underneath the hot stream of water, Kurt leaned against the wall and tried to let the tendons in his neck relax. He didn't know why his heart wouldn't stop thudding so loudly.

After scrubbing the sweat and sickening twisting in his gut away, Kurt redressed and went downstairs, finding Finn sitting on the couch working on math homework while a rerun of _Teen Wolf_ played on the TV. Finn glanced up as Kurt circled around the sofa and plopped down next to him.

"Hey," Kurt said.

Kurt tried not to notice how visibly Finn relaxed when he realized it was actually Kurt speaking to him. "Hey, man. You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm a little tired, but I'm fine."

Finn frowned, as if he'd been expecting a different answer.

"What?"

"Nothing," Finn answered, turning back to his textbook. Kurt watched the television screen as two werewolves snarled at each other, fighting over some plot point that Kurt didn't have the energy to ask Finn about.

The phone rang in the kitchen, and Kurt heard Carole answer it, hanging up only a minute later.

Kurt leaned his head against his fist, letting out a long breath. It felt nice to be doing something _normal_, but he couldn't help feeling like there was some kind of wall surrounding him and separating him from the rest of his family. He was probably imagining things, though.

A sudden scream made him jump, and he realized he'd been dozing. The scream had come from the TV. Finn looked at him askance. "You sure you're alright, dude?"

Kurt rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, I just fell asleep."

The phone rang again in the kitchen.

"Do you need any math help?" Kurt offered, leaning over slightly to see what Finn was doing.

"Nah, I'm good."

"Never thought I'd say it, but I actually miss homework."

Finn snorted, and Kurt realized with a skip of the heart that he hadn't seen Finn smile since February.

Another yell from the TV, and Finn looked at the screen for a moment, his smile fading. He cleared his throat, obviously trying to keep his attention on his books but not succeeding. Kurt frowned. On the TV, Stiles had handcuffed Scott to a radiator and was sitting outside the room while Scott yelled in pain under the light of the full moon.

"Finn, we can change this if you want," Kurt said, confused as to why it would make Finn uncomfortable.

"It's fine."

"Why are you upset?"

Finn swallowed. "It's nothing." Kurt flashed him a look, and Finn sighed. "I just… I've done that with you."

"You handcuffed me to a radiator?"

"You know what I meant."

Kurt went quiet, his joke falling flat. Then he scowled. "Wait, did you just compare my problem to _lycanthropy_?"

"…Maybe?"

"Do I have red eyes and sideburns when I switch? Because that's not something I was aware of."

To Kurt's relief, this elicited another chuckle.

He sighed then, abandoning the humorous tone. "Finn, I'm really sorry you've had to do that."

Finn shrugged. "I know you're fighting," he said. "If you need my help to do that, then fine."

The phone rang again, and Kurt frowned. "Why are so many people calling the house?"

"Oh, it's… kinda been ringing off the hook all morning," Finn said tightly. "The… the club found out you're back."

Kurt's expression hardened, his heart skipping in unease. "How?"

"I guess Brittany and Santana saw us leaving the store yesterday."

Kurt groaned.

"Kurt, they just miss you," Finn said. "Oh! Speaking of which, I almost totally forgot—"

"What?"

Finn shoved his books aside, standing up. "A bunch of them wrote you letters. I didn't know if Eleanor was going to rip them up or something so I kept them here. C'mon."

Swallowing, Kurt followed Finn upstairs to his room, where Finn pulled a shoebox off the shelf above his desk. "Here you go, dude," he said, pushing the box into Kurt's hands.

Kurt lifted the lid. The box wasn't stuffed – it wasn't even halfway full – but there were enough to make Kurt's vision cloud over. He saw envelopes from Puck, Brittany, Rachel, Mercedes… Blaine. There was even one from Santana.

He closed the box quickly. "Thanks, Finn, I…" he trailed off for a second. "I'll read them later."

"Okay."

Finn seemed to understand that Kurt was still too emotionally stressed to deal with whatever feelings of homesickness the letters might trigger, so Kurt gave a grateful nod and tucked the box under his arm to take back to his room.

"Hey, Kurt?"

Kurt turned back.

"Can… Can I give you a hug?"

Kurt blinked in surprise. Finn had never asked for _permission_ before. Not for something that simple. Something flitted over Finn's face, and Kurt nodded.

The hug was tight – worryingly so. Kurt could feel Finn swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing against Kurt's shoulder.

"Are you all right?"

Finn coughed, stepping back, and Kurt could feel the wall going back up. "Yeah, I… just wanted to do that when I knew Eleanor wouldn't try to punch me." He smiled as if it was a joke, but Kurt could tell there was a disturbing amount of truth in what Finn said.

He couldn't help feeling that maybe Finn thought he was slipping away.

* * *

><p>Burt hadn't slept all night, instead staying in his home office area set up in what had used to be the guest bedroom, revising the bills he needed to complete for work. Now it was nearly eight-thirty and he was still up, his eyes sore from reading pages upon pages of text. When he'd decided to run for Representative, he hadn't expected this much <em>paperwork<em>, but it was just part of the job.

The door opened and Carole leaned in. "I brought you some coffee."

He leaned back, stretching and yawning. "Thanks, Car."

She hesitated to give it to him. "Are you sure you don't want to go to bed? You're starting to look like someone out of a zombie movie."

"I'm okay," he said, taking the mug and setting it on a coaster.

"Well, Kurt's up."

Burt's gaze snapped up. "Is he okay?"

"I'm not sure," Carole said, wringing her hands slightly. "He hasn't mentioned what happened yesterday at all, and neither have Finn and I. I can't really tell if he just doesn't want to talk about it or if he doesn't remember."

"But is he okay?"

"Seems to be. It's hard to tell." Carole worried at her lip. "I think you should talk to him about Truman. Make sure he remembers. We don't want him to go through that again."

Burt let out a long breath, nodding. He hated never knowing what was going on in Kurt's head, and he hated not understanding it even when Kurt tried to tell him. "Okay," he said, standing up. "Thanks for the coffee." He planted a kiss on Carole's forehead before heading downstairs to find Kurt.

Kurt was in the kitchen, leaning over the newspaper spread out on the table in front of him.

"Hey, kiddo," Burt said, dropping a hand onto Kurt's shoulder. Kurt looked up and Burt felt a painful lurch in his chest when he saw just how _worn_ Kurt's face was. He just seemed… stretched. Like his bones were too big for his body. "How're you feeling?"

Kurt shrugged halfheartedly. "Tired."

Burt ran a hand through Kurt's hair, ignoring the noise of protest that escaped Kurt's mouth. "You want some toast?"

"Sure," Kurt said, pulling his hair back into place.

"Anything interesting in there?" Burt asked, gesturing to the paper as he moved over to the counter and rummaged through the cupboard for the bread.

Kurt shook his head. "Not really. Just wanted to do something normal."

"Did you sleep at all?"

"I think so, yeah."

"Good."

They fell into silence until Burt brought over a plate of jellied toast, sitting across from Kurt and sliding the plate over. Kurt thanked him and took a bite, turning his attention back to the newspaper.

"Kurt, do…" Burt trailed off, fiddling with his wedding ring. Kurt looked up, his eyebrows raised. "What do you remember about yesterday?"

Kurt frowned, swallowing the last of his bite of toast.

"Do you remember what we talked about before you switched?"

Then, slowly but surely, Kurt's expression contorted, his body going still and his eyes misting over.

Burt leaned forward. "Kurt?"

Another swallow, and Kurt blinked, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. "Yes," he said. "I remember."

Burt nodded, almost relieved that he didn't have to repeat the conversation. "And... are you all right?"

Kurt mouth pressed into a thin line and he swiped at his eyes again, staring at the floor. He shrugged with one shoulder.

Burt reached across the table and laid his hand over Kurt's forearm. "Kurt, whatever's going on in your head, whatever you're feeling – now, later, or _ever –_ it'll help to talk about it. I don't want you to think for a second that it's not okay to feel those things."

Kurt sniffed, clearly struggling to hold back full-blown tears. "I-I just…" he paused, drawing a breath. His voice was thick. "I guess I just d-didn't want to think about it."

"About what exactly?"

"Truman," Kurt whispered.

Burt squeezed Kurt's arm, hoping it would send him some sort of signal that he didn't _have_ to hold back. In all of the parenting classes he and Linda had taken in the months prior to Kurt being born, none of them had trained them how to deal with seeing their child in pain. There was no pamphlet, no _How To Watch Your Kid Suffer 101_, no guidelines for what the _hell_ Burt could do to make this easier.

Kurt's fist clenched, the tendons in his arm tightening under Burt's palm, and he forced out a long, unsteady breath.

"Is there anything else you want to tell me, Kurt?" Burt asked gently.

Kurt's chest shuddered and he shook his head.

"Okay," Burt said, standing up. "Come here." Not bothering to ask for Kurt's permission, he pulled Kurt into a hug, wrapping his arms around Kurt's shoulders. He could feel Kurt shaking, and Kurt's fingers dug into his back, clinging to him in return. "I love you," Burt said with absolute resolution. "No matter what you do, what you feel, or who you are. You understand?"

Kurt nodded minutely against Burt's shoulder. He felt just as small now as he had ten years ago.

"Dad?" came Kurt's voice a minute later, muffled by Burt's shirt.

Burt pulled back slightly. "Yeah?"

Kurt was blinking rapidly, his gaze jumping around the room. Burt had seen this expression a few times before, when Kurt was struggling to say something potentially harmful.

"What is it?"

"Th-there is something else," he hiccoughed, his face blotchy.

"What's going on?"

Kurt pulled away from him, raking his fingers through his hair and gritting his teeth.

"Kurt, what—"

"Craig's dead."

Burt blinked, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion at the abrupt statement. "You— What? How do you know?"

"I-I don't know how to explain it, Dad," Kurt said, his voice shaking in what had to be terror. "He's just— He's not there any more."

Burt shook his head. "I'm confused. He just disappeared?"

"No," Kurt said, wincing and biting back a sob. "T-Truman killed him."

Burt reached out and grabbed Kurt's shoulders to steady him. "Kurt," he said gently. "The last time Truman said he killed people, all three of those people came back."

"This is different," Kurt insisted, his eyes bright and sharp in panic.

"Are you sure he's gone?"

"Yes."

"Did you tell Dr. McManus about this?"

"N-no."

"Why not?"

"I don't know," Kurt cried, his chest heaving. "I was scared."

Burt let out a heavy sigh, trying to think. "Okay," he said. "I want you to talk to him about this the _second_ you get back to the hospital tomorrow, and I want you to keep me _in the loop_."

"Okay."

"You promise?" Burt pressed, his hands still firmly on Kurt's shoulders.

"Yes."

Burt sighed again, praying for just one thing he could do to help. "Kurt, maybe this is a good thing," he said softly.

Kurt blinked, his expression snapping into a frown.

"I mean… you know that at some point they're all going to have to leave if you're going to get better," Burt clarified.

Kurt didn't seem to see it the same way, and his face hardened. "Dad, the people in my head are _killing each other_," he said, his voice abruptly steady. "How is that a good thing?"

"Craig wasn't exactly a fairy godmother, Kurt," Burt stated. "He was an asshole."

"He protected me."

Burt's frown deepened. "He _beat_ you."

"He _protected_ us," Kurt repeated, his gaze and voice startlingly level. His shoulders stiffened under Burt's hands. "And now he's _gone_ and Truman is still there. How long do you think it'll be before Truman goes after Zack again? Or Tyler? Or Eleanor?"

"I can't really say that I'd miss them."

The words were out of Burt's mouth before he realized he'd said them, and Kurt's eyes narrowed as he stepped away, forcing Burt to drop his hands.

Glaring with an intensity eerily similar to Eleanor, Kurt spoke lowly. "How long do you think it'll be before Truman kills _me_ if Craig's not here?"

"Truman's not going to kill you—" Burt started, attempting to be reassuring.

"_YOU DON'T KNOW THAT!_"

Burt jumped, stepping back at Kurt's shout. Kurt's teeth were clenched and his eyes were burning. Burt had never seen him this angry – not Kurt, at least.

"Craig would've done _anything_ to stop Truman from doing this, and now he's gone, and the rest of us are _vulnerable!_" Kurt shouted, his neck craning forward and his shoulders hunching the way they always did when he was furious. "Don't you get it?! He _protected _us!" Kurt swallowed, a few stray tears escaping down to his chin. His jaw clenched.

Burt stared at him, at a loss. He didn't know what to do or say or think.

"He protected us," Kurt continued, his voice shaking as it dropped back to its normal volume, hitching on his sobs. "Which is more than I can say for you."

"Kurt…" Burt breathed, feeling as if his chest was collapsing. He moved to pull Kurt into another hug, but Kurt took a painfully obvious step back. "Kurt, I know… I know you think this is my fault, and that's okay—"

"_It IS your fault!_" Kurt screamed. "You _gave _me to him! You just handed me over!"

"Kurt, you—"

"_I WAS FOUR!_"

Burt suddenly felt as if the blade of a sword had rammed straight through his stomach. He'd dealt with Eleanor's fits of rage, with Truman's insults and Craig's violence, but he'd never seen _Kurt_ stare back at him with this much… _hate._

Not allowing Burt the chance to offer some meager form of defense or comfort or _anything_, Kurt let out a shuddering breath before rushing out of the room, pushing past Finn and Carole, who had been standing in the doorway for the past six minutes.

Carole cast a single terrified look at Burt before running after her stepson.


	74. Familiar Spirits

_Familiar Spirits_

Sundays were the one day out of the week when Rachel allowed herself to sleep late, usually not sliding out of bed until after eight and not eating breakfast until at least eight-forty-five, once her exercise and morning beauty routine was complete. On this particular Sunday, however, she'd gotten up even later than usual, having slept horribly during the night. Once the news that Kurt was suddenly back in town had spread through the club like wildfire, Rachel had been unable to concentrate on pretty much anything at all and had even cut her time on the elliptical short by five minutes from sheer restlessness.

Now, it was closing in on nine-thirty and she was sitting at the dining table in her most comfortable Sunday clothes – just a pair of yoga pants and one of her loosest dance shirts – eating breakfast and attempting to take a chunk out of her homework for physics class (and failing miserably, since all she seemed to be able to think about was Kurt and how he was doing and was he okay and was he here to stay?).

The front door opened in the foyer and Sam walked in, shrugging off his light jacket and jingling his keys.

"Hey," she called. "How was church?"

Sam yawned as he came over to the table and sank into the seat beside her. "Service starts way too early at my church, if you ask me."

Rachel chuckled.

"Have you heard anything from Finn?"

She shook her head, dropping her pen on top of her notebook and leaning her cheek on her fist. "No. I called their house twice yesterday and once this morning and all I got was Ms. Hudson telling me that Kurt wasn't available. And Finn hasn't been answering his cell."

Sam sighed. "Do you think Kurt's any better?"

Rachel shook her head, rubbing tiredly at her eyes. "I want to," she said softly. "But… if he was better then they wouldn't be cutting us off from him. They must have just given him some time at home before he goes back to the hospital or something."

"This sucks," Sam said.

Rachel made a small noise of agreement in her throat.

"I've been praying for him."

"Yeah, me too."

"You need any help with physics?" Sam offered, sounding more like a wish for a change of topic than an actual desire to help.

Rachel shook her head. "No, thanks," she said, then glanced up as her phone rang from the living room where it was plugged into the charger. She stood up and strode over as it rang again, buzzing in place on the coffee table, and unplugged it. She froze when she saw the caller ID.

_Call from: Kurt Hummel._

Sam must have seen her hesitate. "Everything okay?" he called.

She ignored him as the phone buzzed again in her hand, ringing shrilly. Taking a deep breath, she pressed _Accept_ and held it to her ear. "Hello?"

For a second, there was only silence on the other end, then her heart twisted in her chest as a choked-off sob came down the line.

"Kurt, what's wrong?"

"_I—_" he started, and her stomach flipped. She sank onto the couch. "_I— Can you come over?_"

"What's going on?" she pressed, her pulse pounding in her ears.

There was another sob. "_Please come over._"

Rachel swallowed, but didn't have to think twice. "Okay," she said. "Okay, I'm on my way. Just sit tight; I'm coming."

Not even bothering to change and ignoring Sam's inquiries, she slipped on a pair of sandals and grabbed her keys from the foyer, all but running out to her car.

* * *

><p>Rachel shifted her weight from foot to foot as she rang the doorbell to the Hudson-Hummels' house, craning her neck to see through the door's glass pane. Chewing on her lip, she pressed the button again, tugging nervously on her hair. Finally, she saw Finn coming down the hall with a frown on his face.<p>

He pulled the door open. "Rachel, now's really not a good time—"

"No, wait!" she stopped him loudly before he could shut the door again. "Kurt called me."

Finn halted.

"He – he called me and asked me to come," she insisted.

He hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder for a second, then sighed and turned back to Rachel. "Okay, come on," he said, allowing her to pass him. "He's upstairs in his room."

"Where's your mom?" Rachel asked as she followed him towards the stairs. It was quiet in the house, and Rachel didn't know why but it gave her the chills.

"She's with Burt in the living room," Finn said. "Kurt won't really let anyone near him right now."

"It's that bad?"

"Yeah."

"What happened?"

"He kind of had a huge fight with Burt," Finn replied as he turned to climb the stairs. "I'm not really sure what started it, but there was a lot of yelling."

Rachel took a deep breath as they reached the top of the stairwell, abruptly realizing that she had no idea what she was about to see.

Finn knocked on Kurt's door. "Kurt?" he said, leaning into the room. "Rachel's here." There was no response that Rachel could hear, but Finn moved back and gestured for her to go in.

Lacing her fingers together anxiously, she passed Finn and stepped into the room, her heart thudding in her chest. Kurt was sitting on the floor at the foot of his bed, his knees pulled to his chest and his hands over his ears.

"I'll, uh… I'll be downstairs," said Finn, leaving the door open as he left.

Kurt's eyes were squeezed shut and Rachel was reasonably sure that he didn't know she was there. "…Kurt?" she tried, approaching him slowly. She didn't want to startle him. "Kurt, I'm here."

He didn't seem to hear her, so she sank to her knees next to him, tentatively reaching out to touch his shoulder. "Kurt."

He jerked back, his eyes flying open, but his shoulders slumped again as he recognized her.

"What's going on, Kurt?" she asked softly, searching his face for any signs that he was about to change into someone else. She sat back and crossed her legs.

His face was blotchy and his eyes red, as if he'd run out of energy to cry. "They—" he started, his breath hitching in his chest. His fists clenched on top of his knees. "They—"

"It's okay," Rachel whispered.

Kurt's teeth gritted and his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "They won't s-s-stop talking," he choked out.

Rachel reached forward and grabbed his hand, pulling it towards her and wrapping her fingers around his palm. "Don't listen to them," she said.

His mouth opened as if he was struggling for air. "I c-can't breathe," he gasped.

"Yes, you can," she promised. "Just squeeze my hand if you're having trouble."

His fingers suddenly did as she said, clamping around her hand with a painful grip that nearly made her yelp. Kurt's knuckles were white and his hand was so much _bigger_ than hers, but his body looked so much smaller.

Rachel scooted closer, running her free hand through his hair. It had grown long since she'd last seen him. "What's going on, Kurt? What happened?"

His hand tightened again, his ribs shuddering. Rachel was trying not to look at his arms where they each bore the frightening scars of knitted skin where he'd cut them back in February, but it was difficult not to see them. It was even harder not to think about the photographs from her dad's study two months ago, the horrible gut-wrenching pictures of a _tiny_ boy who had been bruised and battered in ways that Rachel didn't even want to imagine.

"It's okay," she said again, wrapping her free arm around Kurt's shoulders and pulling him close. The muscles in his back clenched and unclenched as he fought to pull air into his lungs. Rachel was sure her fingers were getting bruised, but she didn't let go of his hand.

"I can't— can't br-br-breathe," he forced out, his teeth clicking around his words.

It suddenly occurred to Rachel that maybe, instead of trying so hard to inhale, Kurt was trying _not_ to.

Battling with the agonizingly large rock lodged in her throat, she rubbed circles on his back and planted a kiss on his temple. "Kurt, you don't have to work so hard," she said. He convulsed for a moment, choking on nothing. "It's okay."

Suddenly, there was a nearly audible _snap_ as the dam broke, and Kurt was _screaming_.

Rachel clutched his hand as tightly as she could, Kurt practically writhing in her arms. The screams coming out of Kurt's mouth now were unlike anything she'd heard the day Jacob's article had been published. This didn't belong to Eleanor. Whatever Kurt was releasing now had been locked down as tight as he could manage since before he could remember, and it made Rachel's lungs halt to think that he couldn't remember anything else.

Carole rushed into the room, dropping to her knees beside them. "Kurt!" she said loudly. "Kurt, what's—" She turned to Rachel, her eyes wide (and Rachel barely noticed that Finn was standing at the door). "What happened?" Carole demanded, reaching for Kurt's other hand.

Rachel shook her head quickly, realizing for the first time that she was crying. "N-no, leave him," she said, raising her voice to be heard over the hoarse cries from Kurt's throat. She couldn't tell if Kurt knew Carole was there, and if he didn't Rachel didn't want an unexpected touch to startle him.

Carole drew her hand back, looking back and forth between Kurt and Rachel in confusion. A moment later she looked over her shoulder and asked Finn to go back downstairs and stay with Burt, but Rachel wasn't paying attention to anyone other than Kurt and so didn't see Finn leave.

"It's okay," she whispered over and over as she ran her fingers through Kurt's hair.

Kurt was screaming and crying and shaking and probably unable to think at all, but he was _breathing_.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, Rachel was sitting in the same position, her legs folded under her and completely numb from not moving. Kurt had finally exhausted himself and had fallen into a much-needed sleep before he'd been able to remember that Rachel was there. His head was resting on her lap and her fingers were still combing through his hair in an attempt to soothe him while he slept.<p>

"Is he all right?"

Rachel glanced up, startled since she hadn't heard anyone come upstairs. Burt was standing in the doorway, looking as if he wanted nothing more than to come in but wasn't sure if he was welcome. Peering closely at him, Rachel saw that his eyes were slightly red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face worn out.

"I think so," she replied, her fingers tracing a line from Kurt's temple to the back of his skull. His cheek twitched in his sleep. "I think he's just tired."

Burt nodded, swallowing. He looked… helpless. Lost. And just a little bit hopeful.


	75. Sea Of Granite

_Sea Of Granite_

It was another hour before Kurt began to stir. Rachel hadn't moved (and by this point she was beginning to worry that her legs would have to be amputated from lack of circulation), her fingers combing through Kurt's hair in a meditative pattern as she hummed softly under her breath. When Kurt finally mumbled something half-asleep and incoherent, his eyes opening blearily, Rachel stopped humming and drew her hands away from his hair.

"Kurt?" she said as he lifted his head out of her lap. "You alright?"

Kurt blinked at her, his eyebrows knitting slightly as if he wasn't entirely sure that he was awake yet. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"You – you called me," Rachel said, rubbing her legs to restore blood flow as he sat up. "Do you remember that?"

Kurt paused, watching her in confusion for a moment before looking back down to the floor. "Oh," he said. "Yeah."

Rachel reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "Do you remember anything after that?"

Kurt's mouth tightened, his eyes sliding out of focus. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

"What? Why?"

Kurt blinked, then shrugged as he scooted over to sit next to her, leaning back against the foot of the bed. "Just… didn't want you to see me like that."

"Oh, Kurt," Rachel sighed, leaning her head on his shoulder. "I'm glad I was here."

"Even though I scare you?" Kurt asked bitterly.

She sat upright again, looking him directly in the eye. "You _don't _scare me, Kurt, so stop thinking that right now."

Kurt didn't seem to register what she'd said, and he let out a long breath, staring at his hands. "I'd be scared of me," he muttered, almost to himself.

"Kurt," Rachel cut in sternly, reaching up to turn his head and _make_ him look at her. "You are strong and smart and beautiful and you're in _so_ much pain and that _kills_ me, but you're _you_. I could never be afraid of that."

Kurt swallowed, but he didn't say anything.

Rachel exhaled, dropping her hands to her knees. "Are you feeling better?"

"I guess," he said. He let his head fall back against the edge of the bed, closing his eyes for a moment. "I'm tired."

She sat back beside him. "Yeah, you were out for about three hours but I can't imagine it was enough."

They sat in silence, listening to the beginning of a spring rain pattering the window.

"Kurt, what do you want me to tell everyone else?"

Kurt lifted his head with a slight frown. "What do you mean?"

"Sam was with me when you called," she admitted. "They're going to know I was here. I'm not going to tell them anything if you don't want me to, but they're going to ask."

Kurt's mouth pressed into a thin line, and Rachel couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"Tell them the truth," he said.

Rachel almost protested, almost said that nobody had to know anything he didn't want made public, that as much as they all loved him they didn't really have a right to invade his privacy, but she held herself in check. It was probably a breach of his privacy even to suggest anything that had just popped into her head.

It suddenly occurred to Rachel that maybe it had nothing to do with the people at school, but instead that Kurt was just sick of trying to keep everything a secret.

"How's Blaine?" Kurt asked, tugging on a loose thread in his sleeve.

Rachel swallowed, not entirely sure what to report or how Kurt would react (or even why Kurt was asking). "He's… he's okay," she said, stammering slightly. "He's been kind of distant the past few months, but he seems to be getting better."

Kurt nodded, not meeting Rachel's eye. "Good."

* * *

><p>Once Kurt decided that he was tired enough to go back to sleep (this time in his bed rather than on the floor), Finn walked Rachel to the door.<p>

"Will he be okay?" Rachel asked, shivering slightly as she stood on the porch. It was still drizzling slightly and despite it being mid-May the air was chilly and damp.

"Yeah," Finn assured her, glancing back into the house for a moment with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "I think so. My mom's taking him back to the hospital tomorrow morning. He didn't take his meds today so that's probably part of it, but I think he just needs to sleep a while."

Rachel's fingers twisted around themselves as she forced herself to ask another, more frightening question. "It… it was Kurt all the way through that, wasn't it? It was him yelling?"

Finn nodded. "Yeah."

She forced herself to ignore the horrible twisting underneath her breastbone. "Has that ever happened before?"

"Not that I've seen," Finn replied, scratching at his temple.

"Why did he call me, though?" Rachel crossed her arms, shivering again. "Why didn't he call you? Or your mom? You were here."

Finn swallowed, scuffing his foot on the porch slats. "I think…" he started. "Maybe he thought he couldn't trust us."

Rachel didn't know how to respond to that, so she didn't. Instead, she stood on her tiptoes to give Finn a kiss on the cheek, then hunched her shoulders against the thick misty air and went to her car.

Driving back towards her house on the other side of town, Rachel was trying not to let herself think too deeply about any of this. She knew that if she did, she'd have to acknowledge the lie she'd almost allowed herself to believe. The past few months of not seeing Kurt had made room for her to fall into a lulled confidence that Kurt would be fine, that once it was over everything would be normal again, that everything would be _okay_.

Now, she was trying desperately not to realize what the visit had forced her to see.

She was scared. She was so, _so_ scared.

She was scared of the photographs she'd seen, of what she knew that _horrible_ man had done to Kurt, of the fact that people like that even existed.

She was scared of losing Kurt.

She was scared for him.

And she was scared of him.

Pulling into her driveway at last, she abandoned her car and rushed into the house, calling for her father.

Leroy came out of the kitchen to see her standing in the foyer, in flip-flops and a wrinkled dance shirt and yoga pants with damp hair and a face blotchy from crying (and she hadn't noticed that she'd been crying), and immediately asked what was wrong. "Sweetheart, what happened? What's going on?"

Rachel didn't answer, only wrapped her arms around Leroy's waist and tried to let herself feel secure and protected as he hugged her. She'd lost the battle with her mind, which was now running a thousand miles an hour with all the terrifying thoughts she'd been holding back for months on end. Maybe Kurt was going to be stuck like this forever. Maybe the man who hurt him would be found not guilty. Maybe she'd never get Kurt back.

Maybe _it wouldn't be okay._

* * *

><p>The cafe in Mansfield was somewhat crowded as Hiram shrugged off his raincoat and draped it over his arm, shifting his briefcase to his other hand. It had been drizzling in Lima when he left almost two hours ago, but in here there was a torrent coming down in sheets outside, battering the windows and adding another layer to the white noise filling the cafe. Hiram scanned the room and spotted a woman in her thirties sitting alone at a table in the far corner against the window, watching the rain run in rivers down the glass.<p>

"Natalie?" he said as he approached her.

She glanced up, a tight smile on her face. Not unfriendly, just… prepared for a difficult conversation. "Yes, hi."

"Hiram Berry." He held out his hand to shake hers, then sat down. Natalie took a nervous sip from her latte. "Thanks so much for meeting with me; I know it was a long drive."

"It wasn't a problem, I'm… I'm happy to help."

Hiram hung his coat over the back of his chair and open his briefcase, taking out a pen and legal pad. "Now, I realize that some of the stuff we're discussing could be really… sensitive," he started. "But if you feel uncomfortable at any point, just say so."

"Okay." Natalie was thin (almost too thin), pretty, with bitten nails and dyed blonde hair that brushed back and forth across her shoulders every time she shifted in her seat.

Hiram propped the notepad on his knee. "So what can you tell me about John?"

She took another sip of her coffee, glancing out the window. "Well, he… he was always very reserved. You know, he didn't interact much with me, but he was almost nine years older, so…" She shrugged. "Our father wasn't a good guy and as far as I know he really targeted John a lot. But I don't remember that much; Dad died when I was about five and he mostly just ignored me before then."

Hiram nodded as he jotted down the details. "How much have you seen John over the past ten years or so?"

"Not at all."

"Never?"

Natalie shook her head. "No, I haven't seen him since he graduated from Ohio State."

"How old were you then?"

She had to think for a moment before answering. "Uh, fifteen. It was 1995."

"Okay," Hiram said, marking the date. "Natalie, the Toledo officer you spoke to when we were trying to find him… He told me that you didn't sound surprised. That we were looking for him, I mean."

Her mouth tightened. "I wasn't."

"Do you mind telling me why?"

She swallowed. "Mr. Berry, the thing you have to remember about John is that he's a nice guy. He's friendly and he'll smile at everyone. It's only when you get to know him better that it starts to feel strange, and he can keep up the smiles for as long as he wants."

Hiram tilted his head, frowning. "Could you be a little more specific?"

Natalie hesitated again, the tips of her fingers rubbing together in anxiety. "John's my brother," she said. "And I do love him. On some level. But… there's always been something wrong about him. You know, just a little off."

"What do you mean?"

She ducked her head then, speaking quietly. "I really don't know how to explain it…" she trailed off.

"Okay, that's fine," Hiram backed off the subject. He reached down for his briefcase again. "Can I ask you to look at the photos of some of the kids he targeted? Just to see if you recognize anyone?"

Natalie nodded, chewing on the inside of her lip.

He yanked out a manila folder and slid it across the table to her. "A lot of them are still minors, but for the ones who are over eighteen now, see if you recognize their names as well."

The pictures weren't frightening in and of themselves – only school yearbook photos obtained by the Ohio police department – but Natalie's eyes gradually welled up as she flipped through them. She sniffed, then stopped on one picture and held it up. "This one. Kurt Hummel," she said. "He's the one who… who told the police who to look for, isn't he?"

Hiram nodded. "Do you recognize him?"

"No," she replied, still staring at the picture. "How old was he?"

"Four."

She shook her head, blinking back tears as she put Kurt's picture back into the folder. "I'm sorry, Mr. Berry, I don't know any of them."

"That's okay," he assured her, sliding the folder back into his briefcase. "Can I ask something, though?"

Natalie used a napkin to wipe her eyes. "Sure."

"It's been seventeen years since 1995," he said. "Why haven't you seen John at all? I mean… he _is_ your brother."

She swallowed, looking down quickly, and for a moment Hiram thought he saw sheer terror flit across her face.

And then it hit him with all the force of a bullet train at full speed.

_Teenage girl, 1994. No ID, no photographs._

Hiram blinked, fighting the urge to throw up. "It's fine," he said quickly. "You don't have to tell me."

She nodded gratefully, chewing on the insides of her cheeks.

"Natalie, are you willing to testify against him in court?" Hiram asked. "You're under no obligation to, and I understand if you say no, but your testimony could really help our case."

She drew a deep breath, sitting up a little straighter. "Yes," she said. "I'll do it."

"Thank you," Hiram breathed in relief. "We'll make sure he ends up in jail."

"I don't care if he goes to jail or not," Natalie said, her voice suddenly hard. "I just don't want anyone else getting hurt."


	76. Paper Faces

_Paper Faces_

Burt watched the ground pass by thousands of feet beneath him from his business class seat on the Airbus 350, the towns and roads shrouded in misty morning light. It was just passing five-thirty in the morning and he was on his way to Washington for the week's House sittings, and he'd rather have been doing _anything_ else.

Mostly, though, he just wanted to be there for when Kurt was brought back to the hospital. They still hadn't talked about what had happened the day before, and the weight of it was sitting in the pit of Burt's stomach like a black mold growing just out of sight.

Burt hated this feeling, this awful subdued twisting in his gut that refused to go away, whispering that there was _something_ wrong. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he also couldn't help sensing that something bad was on its way.

"Excuse me, sir," the flight attendant's voice startled him out of his thoughts. She gave him a plastic, too-white smile. "Would you care for any more refreshments?"

Burt sighed, every nerve cell in his body buzzing with exhaustion. "Coffee," he said. "A gigantic cup of coffee would be great, thanks."

She gave him two mugs of the crappy airplane brew, and he swallowed the contents of both without caring that it burned his throat on the way down.

* * *

><p>While most people groaned about their own miserable Monday mornings as they trudged up and down the school hallways on their way to classes, Rachel usually felt refreshed on Mondays. Her weekends were always scheduled (it wasn't a bad thing to be organized), but remained lax in comparison to her weekdays and she always returned to school feeling rejuvenated and ready to attack any problem that dared to present itself.<p>

Today, though, she just felt drained.

After she'd left Kurt's house yesterday, the rest of the afternoon, evening, and night had been maddeningly quiet. She'd been unable to concentrate on any of her unfinished homework and had given up in favor of watching some B-rated horror movie on TV with her dads and a giant bowl of heavily buttered popcorn. It had taken her almost until midnight to fall asleep.

She stifled a yawn as she stood in front of her locker, pushing the books she'd need for the next three periods into her backpack, and was almost startled when Blaine appeared next to her, nervously tugging on the strap of his book bag.

"Rachel, can I talk to you for a sec?" he asked, coughing lightly and shifting from his heels to his toes and back.

"He went back this morning," she replied, giving Blaine a saddened smile.

"What?" Blaine blinked.

Rachel shut her locker and hefted her bag onto her shoulder. "You were going to ask about Kurt, weren't you? He went back to the hospital this morning."

Blaine swallowed and his mouth twitched. His fingers tightened around the strap of his book bag. "Was… was he okay?"

Rachel pressed her lips together, glancing at the floor for a moment. She knew that Kurt had said to tell the truth, but she didn't think she could. At least, not entirely. "No," she said after a pause, deciding to avoid any real details – as much for her own sanity as for Blaine's. "He wasn't. Look, Blaine, he still loves you. I know he does."

Blaine's expression was hard to read, somewhere between shock and hope.

"But…" Rachel continued, "I don't think he has space for you right now. Maybe he used to but I don't think that's true any more. A-and on top of that, he's trying to protect you."

"He doesn't need to protect me," Blaine said, sounding more confused than anything else.

"Stop it."

Blaine blinked in surprise.

Rachel exhaled heavily. Blaine still didn't understand. "You've seen how stressed Finn's been over the past few months. You've seen Kurt's switches," she tried to explain. "You're not living with that every day like they are. Of _course_ Kurt has to protect you."

Blaine didn't argue a second time, but to Rachel's relief he seemed to have absorbed what she'd said. He hesitated before asking another question. "Do you know when he's coming back again?"

"No, I don't." The bell rang shrilly, alerting everyone in the building that it was time for first period, but Rachel and Blaine didn't move just yet.

"Blaine, you're just _stuck_ right now," Rachel insisted. "You either have to be with him or you have to make a clean cut, and as far as I can tell, Kurt doesn't have room for you to be with him."

Blaine didn't respond to that, and Rachel wanted to stay and make sure he was okay but her grades in Physics were already on thin ice and being late to class wasn't going to help, so she patted Blaine's arm and headed down the corridor in the direction of the science labs.

Just before she turned the corner, she glanced back to see Blaine with his shoulders hunched, striding away towards the weight room.

* * *

><p>Dr. McManus didn't think he'd ever seen Kurt so withdrawn. In the days leading up to his two-and-a-half month disappearance, Kurt had been frustrated and upset and quick to anger, and he'd been <em>trying<em>. He'd been working at getting a handle on his alters and had been listening closely to McManus' advice. Even in the past week, after he'd come back into his own head, he'd seemed fatigued, as if having control of his own limbs was almost too much effort, but still _wanting_ and searching to put himself back together.

After Kurt spent the weekend at home, however, McManus was shocked at the contrast. Kurt was still tired and still frustrated, but he was so inanimate now that it didn't seem like he even wanted to get better.

Or maybe… maybe he just didn't want to want it any more.

McManus didn't pretend to be a total expert in split personalities, but he knew enough to be able to tell immediately that something was wrong in Kurt's personal life, probably having nothing to do with the other people in his head. Kurt was sitting on the couch in his usual spot, his arms limply crossed and his eyes downcast, as if a meeting with his doctor wasn't enough to hold his interest. The muscles in his face were slack and expressionless, and McManus honestly didn't know what to think.

"So, how was your weekend?" he asked lamely, marking the top corner of his notepad with Kurt's patient ID number and the date.

Kurt shrugged. "Fine."

"Any transitions?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me about them."

Kurt let out a short, heavy breath. "On Saturday Zack came out, and on both days Truman, Eleanor, and Robbie were talking."

McManus scribbled _Alters getting more vocal_ across his notepad. "Do you have any idea what triggered them?"

Kurt shook his head.

_Kurt is hiding details,_ McManus wrote.

"How did you feel being back with your family?"

Kurt shrugged, pulling at a loose thread in his sweatpants. "I don't know…"

"Did you feel lonely?"

Kurt looked mildly surprised. "Yes."

"Readjusting to your old life after having spent time in the hospital is always difficult for everyone involved," McManus reassured him, scribbling his notes quickly. "Even if its only for a couple of days. You get used to a different dynamic and it's hard to switch back." He paused, giving Kurt a few moments to absorb what he'd said before posing another question. "Were the alters saying anything in particular to you?"

"Not really."

"Have you heard them at all today?"

"No."

McManus wasn't entirely sure if Kurt hearing the alters was a good thing or bad. Hearing voices was never a good sign, but in Kurt's case there was a chance that it could mean his mind was slowly pulling itself back together, the disjointed personalities gradually beginning to bleed into one another.

"My dad and I had a fight," Kurt admitted, and McManus quickly noted it.

"What about?"

Another shrug. "I don't know. He doesn't get it, I guess."

"Kurt, you have to remember that no one really knows what you're experiencing aside from you," McManus said. "All we have to go on is what you and the alters say and do, and that's not always clear. I don't know your dad that well but I'm sure he's just trying to do what's right."

Kurt nodded, looking as if he didn't quite believe anything McManus had said.

"Did you resolve the problem?"

"No," Kurt said quietly, tugging again at the loose thread on his knee. "Dad had to go back to D.C. this morning."

"And you didn't try to talk about it before he left?"

"He came into my room last night and tried to talk about it. I pretended to be asleep."

"Why is that?"

"I'm sick of talking."

McManus sighed. Avoiding dialogue was always a dangerous step for a patient to take. "And how does Carole feel about this?"

"I don't know."

"You're not talking to her either?"

"You make it sound like I'm giving them the silent treatment."

"Are you?"

"No," Kurt insisted, his tone snappish and annoyed. "I just don't see what talking is going to do in the long run. It's not going to get me integrated."

"Not on its own, no," McManus replied evenly. "But it helps."

"Doesn't seem like it."

"How do you feel about the trial coming up?" McManus asked, trying a slightly different topic.

Kurt's expression didn't change. "I haven't really thought about it," he said flatly.

"Have you thought about whether you need to?"

"I've been a little preoccupied," Kurt said tightly, his fingernails clicking as he picked at them.

"With what, specifically?" McManus knew he was pushing Kurt's buttons, but he was willing to try almost anything to get Kurt to _talk_. Kurt was right – talking by itself wasn't going to accomplish much, but it raised the floodgates and paved the way for everything that followed. Patients who refused to talk never made it past the first few steps.

"Craig's dead."

McManus halted. "I'm sorry?"

"Craig's dead. He's gone." Kurt twisted the loose thread between his thumb and forefinger, his other hand tightly clenched. "I can't feel him any more."

"How does it feel different?"

"I don't know, he… he took up space. Now it's just empty."

"Does that frighten you?"

"More than anything."

McManus set his notebook aside for a moment, leaning forward on his elbows. "Kurt, do you think you've really confronted what John Truman did to you?"

Kurt's eyebrows snapped together, his gaze startlingly level. "What do you mean?"

"Are you fully aware of what happened?"

"I don't remember it, if that's what you mean."

"No, if you remembered we'd be dealing with a different problem entirely," McManus explained. "What I'm asking is if you've realized and acknowledged what happened to you as a child."

Kurt's face was questioning, suspicious of where McManus was going with this line of conversation. "Yes, I have," he said slowly, his eyebrows knitted together.

"Can you say it?"

"What?"

McManus laced his fingers together, steeling his nerves. "Can you say, out loud, what happened to you?"

Kurt stared back, his face hard. "Why should I?"

"Some patients find it's easier to conquer their problems if they're able to verbally acknowledge them."

"What is it with you and _talking_?" Kurt demanded.

"I never said you had to," McManus replied calmly. There was a wide range of responses from different patients in reaction to this particular approach; Kurt's waspishness was nothing new. "I just wanted to see if you could. It's okay if you can't."

"I can," Kurt snapped.

McManus only raised his eyebrows expectantly, waiting.

"I…" Kurt faltered, his hardened voice wavering momentarily. He shook his head. "Look, I don't see what kind of an effect this is supposed to have."

"It's supposed to help you confront your problem and fully understand what it is."

Kurt's lip curled slightly. "You think I don't understand that I'm a multiple?"

"Kurt, your alters aren't the problem; they're only a symptom. You haven't fully accepted what happened to cause the split."

"Yes, I have!"

"Then say it. Tell me you've accepted it."

"I don't have to prove anything to you," Kurt spat, his limbs rigid.

McManus smiled very slightly. "What on earth makes you think I'm asking for me?"

Kurt huffed. "I really don't know what you want from me here."

"If you don't feel up to talking, Kurt, then we can be done for today," McManus offered. He'd planted the seed of doubt in Kurt's head; he could allow it room to grow. "That's up to you."

"_Thank_ you," Kurt snapped, standing up and brushing out of the room without another word.

McManus sighed and sat back to review his notes on their discussion. He'd see Kurt tomorrow, and every day after that for as long as it took.

* * *

><p>Finn had known ahead of time that lunchtime on Monday would be hell. He'd actually considered grabbing some food from the line and then skipping out of the cafeteria before anyone in the club could notice, but he knew that doing so would probably only prompt even more questions. So instead, he filled his tray and sat down next to Rachel as the other club members slowly filtered into the cafeteria, crunching tensely on his carrot sticks as he braced himself for the barrage of questions.<p>

And, amazingly, none came.

Not a single member of the club – not even Quinn or Sugar – ventured to prod Finn for details on Kurt's temporary return. Rachel had squeezed his arm and given him a small smile when he'd sat down, and he was pretty sure that the rest of them were sneaking wary glances in his direction when he wasn't looking, but other than that conversation went on as normally as on any other day. It was almost nerve-wracking. Finn was quiet, waiting for someone to give up and address the elephant in the room.

When the elephant was finally brought up, it was not by anyone in the club, nor was it directed at Finn. A tape recorder was shoved under Blaine's nose as Jacob Ben Israel appeared from behind, making everyone at the table jump slightly.

"Jacob, I really don't want to talk to you," Blaine said as calmly as he could manage.

"Inquiring minds want to know," Jacob shrugged. "Rumor has it that Kurt Hummel returned this weekend only to be dragged right back into the asylum. What can you tell us about that?"

Finn's eyes widened. How the hell had Jacob found out about that?

Blaine's eyes narrowed. "No comment," he said rigidly.

"Rumor also has it that you were the one who drove Kurt to the psych ward in the first place—"

"Hey!" Mike barked. "What is your problem?"

"Would you just _go away_?" Tina demanded.

"You are _so_ annoying," Brittany groaned, rolling her eyes.

"I'm just trying to give the people what they want to hear," Jacob snapped, turning his attention back to Blaine and failing to notice the glares in his direction. Even Rory looked like he was about to snap. "So, Blaine, how does it feel to have your boyfriend locked up in a padded cell?"

Blaine lurched to his feet, his teeth gritted and his fists clenched. Finn stood up as well, rage boiling in his gut. To his credit, Jacob at least had the decency to look a little frightened.

Finn was startled when Quinn was the next person to speak up. "Jacob, if you don't walk away right now, I'm dragging you straight to Coach Beiste," she threatened.

"Coach Beiste can't do anything," Jacob retorted. "She's not the principal."

Finn's jaw tightened, and he felt Rachel's hand on his arm. Another minute and he knew that either he or Blaine would punch Jacob in the teeth.

"You have three seconds," Quinn snapped, now on her feet with Blaine and Finn.

Jacob squirmed in place, and finally Quinn rolled her eyes and snagged him by the scruff of his shirt, yanking him along as she headed for the cafeteria doors. The rest of the club were watching with wide eyes and Jacob shrieked, digging his heels in and fighting against her.

"Would you rather I took you to Coach Sylvester?" Quinn spat.

"You can't do anything to me!" Jacob cried, still trying to pull away.

"_Yes, I can,_" Quinn snarled.

"Let go of me!" Jacob yelped, tugging at her wrist. "You're as crazy as Hummel!"

In half a second, Quinn halted and spun around, driving her knee directly between Jacob's legs. He let out a high-pitched howl and dropped to the ground, and Finn couldn't suppress a grim smile.

"_Hey!_" Mr. Schue bellowed, breaking through the crowd of student spectators that had gathered to watch. "What's going on?!" He reached down and pulled Jacob back onto his feet, keeping a hand wrapped around Jacob's arm and turning to Quinn. "You want to tell me what happened?"

Quinn crossed her arms. "He wasn't cooperating."

Mr. Schue huffed, Jacob still half-curled and sniveling in his grip. "Come on," he snapped. "I'm taking both of you to see Principal Figgins."


	77. An Infection Of The Blood

_An Infection Of The Blood_

At the moment, Carole hated a lot of things. She hated that Kurt was in the hospital three hours' drive away, she hated that Burt wasn't sleeping, she hated that Finn wouldn't talk to her about anything that was bothering him, and most of all she hated feeling so _useless_.

Coming back from dropping Kurt off at the hospital in Athens, Carole had been fighting tears for the entire drive, her hands gripping the steering wheel with whitened knuckles. She'd wished that Burt had been there to say goodbye, but she couldn't tell if Kurt wished the same, and that probably hurt more than anything else.

Kurt hadn't spoken to her. Not really. He'd said goodbye and given her a hug, but he hadn't quite looked her in the eye since Saturday and the barrier between him and everything else had been so close to tangible.

So Carole left him at the hospital, drove the three hours back to Lima, made coffee, and sat down in her empty kitchen.

She didn't have to go in to work until late; she could take the graveyard shifts most nights now that she didn't have to be there at night to monitor Kurt, but it left a painful gap in her schedule and made it harder to be there for Finn and Burt. She was always tired and never wanting to sleep.

The doorbell rang and made her jump, nearly spilling her coffee over the counter. She quickly set her mug down and went to the front door, opening it to find Hiram standing on the porch.

"Hiram, hi," she said, caught off-guard by the surprise visit. Her heart suddenly lurched in half a second of panic. The trial wasn't until May 22nd, but a lot could happen between now and then. "Is something wrong?"

"Oh, no, I just stopped by to see if Burt was in," he reassured her with a flap of the hand.

Carole's heart resumed it's normal pace. "Well, he's in Washington," she said. "But come in." She stepped aside, and Hiram passed by her with a thank-you.

"So… how's Kurt doing?" Hiram inquired, declining Carole's offer of coffee.

"He's… he's all right," Carole said hesitantly, shrugging slightly. She knew that Hiram was privy to a lot of details regarding Kurt's past, but that didn't mean she wanted to talk about it with him. "He's working hard."

"Good; I'm glad to hear it."

Carole sipped her coffee. "What did you need to speak to Burt about?"

"Nothing hugely urgent," Hiram said, leaning against the counter. "I just found out who's filling first chair for defense. I figured Burt might like to know."

"Who is it?"

"Her name is Ruth Summers."

"Is that bad or good?"

"Well, it's an obstacle; I won't lie," Hiram replied, tugging on the cuff of his jacket. "I went up against Ruth on a murder case years ago. She's a shark, and she's tough to beat."

Carole swallowed. "Hiram, you don't really think John Truman's going to walk away from this, do you?"

Hiram shook his head. "No. Regardless of whether or not we win this trial, he's not getting off scot-free. There's no question of whether or not he committed a crime – even Ruth Summers wouldn't try to argue that. The big debate here is whether he _knew_ what he was doing."

Carole frowned. "But how could he not?"

"That's what I'd like to know."

* * *

><p>Rachel didn't see Quinn for the rest of the school day, including Glee rehearsal (which irked Rachel since Nationals was fast approaching and the club needed <em>everyone<em>), so the moment she got home, she picked up the phone in her bedroom and dialed Quinn's home number.

"_Hello?_"

"Hi, Quinn, it's Rachel."

"_Hi._"

"I was wondering—"

"_I've been suspended_," Quinn cut her off, answering Rachel's question before she'd stated it.

"What?!" Rachel exclaimed, sinking onto the edge of her bed. "But Jacob—"

"_I know_."

"This is so unfair."

"_Jacob was being a total asshole with no concept of boundaries, but he wasn't physically attacking anyone, so as far as Figgins is concerned there's not enough to suspend him,_" Quinn explained, her tone laced with bitterness.

Rachel clenched her teeth. "You shouldn't be taking the fall for that— that— that sniveling _rat_—"

"_Is this your way of saying thank you?_"

Rachel huffed. "Yes. Thank you. What you did was… very noble."

There was a pause on the other end. "_Rachel, are you doing okay?_"

"…Yeah, why?" Rachel frowned.

"_I know you saw Kurt yesterday, and you seemed really quiet at school this morning._"

Rachel sighed, flopping backwards onto her bed. "I'm fine," she said. "Just… I want to focus on Nationals for now. We've only got so much time to prepare, after all. When is your suspension over?"

"_It's just the rest of this week, but Rachel…_" Quinn paused in a way that made Rachel tense, bracing herself for bad news. "_I can't perform at Nationals._"

"What?!" Rachel cried, sitting bolt upright again. "Why?!"

"_Figgins wanted to suspend me for two weeks, but that would've affected my grades too much,_" Quinn said. "_I had to make a deal with him._"

"But Quinn, we need your voice for the competition!" Rachel protested, her voice rising. "We've already lost Kurt – we need _everyone_! Didn't Mr. Schue try to fight this?"

"_Yeah, but I didn't have a choice, okay? I'm sorry. I'll still come to rehearsals and help with the choreography and everything, but I can't compete._"

Rachel let out a heavy breath, torn between her fresh anger and remaining gratitude.

"_You'll be fine, Rachel. You still have enough members._"

Quinn said goodbye and hung up, and Rachel dropped her phone onto the bed beside her, annoyed that Quinn didn't seem to understand what was most important.

* * *

><p>Kurt <em>hated<em> this feeling. Restlessness was gnawing away at his intestines, making it impossible to sit still, but at the same time he felt so fatigued in every cell of his body that he didn't feel like he could do anything, nor did he even want to. It was enough to drive him insane.

Well…

While Dustin, Robin, and Bruce (Alex had been discharged back in March) crowded around their table in the common room, playing Connect-Four as usual, Kurt paced in his room. He had too much energy to sleep (he'd tried), and not enough energy to be social with the other nutcases.

And _wow_, he was starting to sound like Robbie.

Tugging his fingers through his hair, Kurt's teeth gritted of their own accord as his bare feet wore a hole into the carpet. He didn't know what he wanted. It felt too quiet in his head, like the eye of a hurricane – there was nothing happening now but he was _so close_ to the edge. He could feel it. Two steps in the wrong direction and he'd slip away and he _didn't know what to do._

He thought about calling his dad, but Burt was in Washington and busy with House sittings, and the thought of him made Kurt's lungs hurt. He abruptly realized that he was chewing on the cuticle of his index finger, and quickly dropped his hand, twisting his fingers together to keep them away from his mouth. He thought he'd dropped the nail-biting habit years ago.

The shoebox containing all of the letters addressed to him rested on top of his little bureau, glaring at Kurt every time he turned around and daring him to open it. He'd picked it up at least five times since he got back this morning with the intent of reading the letters, but each time had set it back down without lifting the lid. He didn't really understand what was stopping him, but every time he thought about the small stack of envelopes inside the box his stomach flipped over and made him dizzy.

So he paced.

Kurt's skin felt charged with static, but his internal organs felt cold and abandoned, and the contrast was making him nauseous.

"Can't stop moving?"

Kurt turned around to see his roommate just coming in. By now he'd figured out that, while Scott ranted and fidgeted and spoke in jumbled language for roughly ninety percent of the time, he managed occasional glaring moments of lucidity. Judging by the sharp and focused look in his eyes, this was one of those moments.

"No, I can't," Kurt sighed, sinking onto the edge of the bed.

Scott sat on his own bed, scratching at the scruff on his double chin. "It's the bugs," he said.

"What bugs?" Kurt asked, not sure if Scott was still fully awake or if he was already slipping back.

"It's what you get when the meds start fighting with your brain," Scott replied, staring thoughtfully at the wall. "Makes you feel like there's bugs everywhere."

Kurt didn't say anything. Part of him was relieved that someone understood what was happening, and the rest of him was terrified that said person was sicker than he was.

"How many needles you get?" Scott asked, rubbing a palm over the back of his skull.

"What?"

"Needles, needles," Scott insisted, the glazed-over look returned to his eyes. "How many'd they give you? I got nineteen – nineteen! And they read your brainwaves and get your Social Security numbers – they can do that. Modern technology. It's amazing."

He laughed, and Kurt sighed, flopping back onto his bed to stare at the ceiling. He wondered if he sounded and looked as crazy as Scott when he transitioned.

The ceiling over his head seemed to be moving downward, closing the room in on itself, but Kurt didn't move as the pressure built up on his chest. His thoughts were jumpy and disconnected and he couldn't stay focused. He was torn between wanting to scratch all his skin off his body and needing to curl up in bed and _sleep_.

He wished someone else would take over, just for a while.

* * *

><p>The only sound in the dining room was the ticking of the pendulum clock on the wall as Blaine sat at the table, concentrating on the history textbook open in front of him. He'd been sitting in one place for nearly two hours, and his eyes were beginning to swim with orange-highlighted paragraphs and hundred-year-old battles and dates he didn't <em>really <em>have the energy to remember. Yawning, he dropped his highlighter onto the book and leaned back in his chair, stretching and rubbing his eyes. The bones in his neck and spine popped, nearly as loudly as the clock's ticking, and he let out a heavy breath. Maybe it was time for a break.

The clock clacked away on the wall, stabbing through the air repeatedly and landing in Blaine's head in what felt like an oncoming headache. _Clack, clack, clack_, like a metronome.

Blaine's ears were so attuned to the rhythmic ticking that when the phone rang in the kitchen, he jumped and nearly fell out of his seat.

With the clock reduced again to background noise, Blaine stood up and quickly grabbed the phone out of its cradle on the kitchen counter on the third ring. "Hello?"

"_…Hi._"

In half a second, Blaine's heart dropped into his stomach. "K-Kurt?" he stammered, not entirely sure if he'd heard the voice right.

"_Yeah._"

Blaine leaned against the counter, uncertain of his own center of gravity. "Are – are you okay?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

There was a heavy exhale on the other end, and then a noise like Kurt had sunk down to sit on the floor. "_I don't know, I…_" Kurt trailed off, and Blaine could practically see him biting his lip. "_I wanted to talk to you_."

"I thought you hated me," Blaine said quietly. It wasn't an accusation – instead, a question craving contradiction.

"_I tried,_" Kurt replied. "_It didn't work_."

Blaine laughed involuntarily at that. The chuckle died away quickly, however. Laughs seemed way too out of place. "Well, I… wouldn't blame you if you did."

Kurt was silent.

Blaine's fingertips rubbed together nervously at his sides. "Kurt, are you—" he started, his words halting in his chest. He tried again. "Are you alright? What's going on in the hospital?"

Another exhale, shorter and heavier this time. "_Nothing_," Kurt answered. "_Nothing's happening_."

Kurt's voice was bitter and a little cold, and Blaine's stomach twisted around itself. "I heard you were back in Lima this weekend," he said, hoping for a slight change of topic. "Does that mean you're feeling better?"

"_I just wanted to spend some time at home. My roommate never shuts up._"

Blaine chewed nervously on the inside of his lip. "I miss you," he admitted, the words escaping his mouth without his say-so. He held his breath.

There was silence on the other end and for a long moment, Blaine thought Kurt wasn't going to reply.

"_I miss you too._"

"Are you coming back soon?"

Kurt sighed, making the line crackle. "_I don't know, Blaine…_"

"It's okay," Blaine saved him from having to elaborate. "But if you do come back for another weekend, I'd love to see you. I… I don't like not knowing if you're all right."

"_I think it's been pretty well established that I'm not all right._"

"Well," Blaine shrugged. "I don't like not knowing what you're going through."

"_…Thanks._"

Blaine swallowed, his heart thudding against his ribs. "Kurt, did you get the letter I wrote you? I gave it to Finn but I didn't hear anything back…"

"_Yeah,_" Kurt said, his voice turned unsteady all of a sudden. "_I haven't read it yet, though. Sorry._"

Blaine couldn't help feeling slightly offended, but he forced himself to remember that he was just an extra cog in this situation – if he was thrown into the fray, he'd only stop everything up. "It's fine," he said. "But, um… read it when you can, okay?"

"_I will._"

Blaine hugged his abdomen with his free arm, hating that he couldn't see Kurt in front of him. "Can I ask what you've been doing in the hospital? How your treatment's going?"

There was a soft _thump_ on the other end, like Kurt had let his head fall back against the wall a little too hard. "_It's hard to tell if it's working,_" he said. "_Mostly I'm just tired all the time. They have me on a lot of medication, though, so…_"

Blaine didn't know what to say to that.

"_I'm really scared._"

The words were spoken so quietly that Blaine almost didn't hear them amongst the static on the line, and his heart skipped several beats. His throat was beginning to constrict.

"I'm so sorry, Kurt," he said. "I… I completely messed everything up."

"_It was as much my fault as yours_," Kurt said, his voice shaking. "_I should've told you what was going on. It's not— It's—_"

Blaine frowned at Kurt's stammer, uncertain if he'd been tripping over his words or if the line had cut out for a second. "Kurt?"

Silence.

"Hello? You still there?"

"_…Daddy?_"

Blaine flinched and nearly dropped the phone.

"_Daddy, I can't find Raleigh._"

Before Kurt could say anything else, Blaine hung up. He leaned heavily against the counter, trying to breathe without throwing up as the ticking of the clock in the dining room grew steadily louder in the quiet.


	78. For Your Delectation

_For Your Delectation_

The playground was quieter than usual. The air was tight and constricting, as if the playground was trapped under a dome and Kurt was running out of oxygen. It was oppressive, and harder to breathe than in the hospital ward. There wasn't even the tiniest breeze moving over Kurt's skin, and the sky was perfectly clear. It made Kurt tense and anxious.

Kurt tugged a hand through his hair, glancing nervously toward where Eleanor was talking to Zack underneath the playground platforms and Robbie was lounging boredly on a bench on the other side of the slide. Truman was jabbing at Schism with a stick through the bars of the jungle gym. Schism wasn't reacting at all, which only seemed to make Truman try harder to annoy him.

Heaving an uneasy sigh, Kurt walked toward the empty swing set, ignoring the alters for the time being. He approached the swings with his heart thudding loudly in his head. The paint along the top bar was flaking, charred and blackened, and one of the swings was dragging in the dirt, hanging by only one chain. He didn't think anyone used the other swing any more.

The dirt underneath where Craig had been hung was blackened too, though Kurt didn't remember the fire reaching quite that low. The entire memory was fuzzy and hard to grasp. He knelt and brushed his fingers over the sand, his hand jerking back when he felt how shockingly _cold_ it was. Frowning, Kurt peered more closely at the charred ground, his stomach clenching as he noticed tendrils of frost built up between the pebbles. Slowly, he extended his hand so that his fingers hovered in the space beneath the swing set, and it was as if he'd stuck his hand into a freezer. His hairs stood on end, goosebumps traveling up over his wrist.

He yanked his hand back, blowing into his fist to warm it back up. The cold had seeped into his bones, feeling almost as if it was clinging to him beneath the skin, inside his nerves and blood vessels.

"Come _on_!"

Kurt twisted to look over his shoulder to where Eleanor was kneeling by the platforms, frustratedly beckoning to Zack. Zack was cowering away from her, refusing to move. Kurt swallowed and headed towards them, hoping Truman wouldn't notice that anything was amiss. Truman stayed where he was, however, still entertained by the challenge of getting Schism to react to being prodded in the ribs again and again.

(It wasn't working at all – Schism was completely ignoring him.)

"What's going on?" Kurt asked, crouching next to Eleanor to peer underneath the platform at Zack.

"He won't come out," Eleanor huffed, gesturing at Zack in exasperation. "I've been trying for ages."

Kurt squinted at Zack, who only pulled his legs closer to his chest and inched a little further away. "What's the matter?"

"I don't feel good," Zack said softly, his eyes wide and glassy in the shadow of the platform overhead.

"What's wrong?"

Zack shuddered, hiding his face. "I don't want to tell you."

"He said the same thing to me," Eleanor snapped. "It's Truman, Kurt, we— we can't let him keep—"

"I know," Kurt sighed, his fingertips still cold. "I know."

"What are we going to do?" Eleanor pressed.

Kurt chewed nervously on his cuticle, without an answer. Even though his transitions had slowed down since February, he felt more out of control and powerless than ever before. He had no idea what he or any part of him could do.

Glancing over his shoulder, Kurt's heart skipped a beat. Truman was still by the jungle gym, but he'd stopped bothering Schism and was now watching the two of them.

Kurt swallowed, turning back to Eleanor. "We'll figure something out," he said, and he was fairly certain that he'd never been less sure of anything else in his life.

* * *

><p>Standing backstage in the school auditorium, Rachel's heart thudded in her chest as she forced herself to take deep, slow, calming breaths. Her hands were clammy and shaky with adrenaline. Finn squeezed her shoulder.<p>

"You okay?" he asked.

"Other than feeling like my stomach's going to fall out, you mean?" Rachel replied, her voice tight and as unsteady as her hands. "Other than that, I'm fine."

Finn gave her what was probably intended to be a reassuring smile. "You got this," he promised. "I'll be in the stands, cheering you on."

Rachel wasn't able to suppress a minor chuckle at Finn's repetition of what she told him before every one of his football games.

"I'm going to go grab a seat." Finn planted a kiss on the top of her head and left, disappearing through the door to the hallway and leaving Rachel alone in the terrifying quiet.

_You can do this. Make Barbra proud._

"Kurt Hummel," commanded a strict voice from out in the auditorium, making Rachel's heart skid to a stop.

_Oh my God,_ she realized.

Kurt hadn't been taken off of the NYADA finalists' roster.

Steeling herself, Rachel took a deep breath and walked out onto the stage. Carmen Tibideaux was sitting regally in the center of the sea of empty chairs. Finn, Blaine, and Mr. Schue were clustered together toward the back, but it was hard to see them with Madame Tibideaux's harsh eyes coldly searching Rachel for any visible flaws before she'd even started.

"M-Madame Tibideaux," she started, making sure to project. "My name is Rachel Berry. I'm sorry, but Kurt's… unavailable."

Rachel could see a judgmental eyebrow rise from where she stood.

"If he's unavailable now, he will not be afforded a second chance at auditions," Madame Tibideaux responded evenly. "The Academy doesn't make allowances for students with cold feet."

Rachel felt a hot spike of anger stab through her stomach, and forced herself to suppress it, reminding herself that Madame Tibideaux didn't know the whole story – or even a piece of it. "He's in the hospital," she said as calmly as she could manage.

"Then he can re-apply in December," Madame Tibideaux replied. "I assume _you _are ready, Miss Berry?"

Rachel swallowed, her heart once again picking up the pace. "Y-Yes, ma'am."

"Then please continue."

* * *

><p>A dull buzzing filled Kurt's ears as he sat in his usual spot on Dr. McManus' office couch, one leg folded up underneath him and the other jiggling against the floor. It felt as if he'd had five cups of coffee but no way to spend the energy jolt, so it was just sitting in his stomach like a coiled-up spring waiting to release. He felt caged, and he hated it more and more by the day.<p>

He briefly wondered if this was how the alters felt, beating against the walls of his skull and screaming at him to be let out.

"You know, we have an elliptical in the common room, Kurt," McManus said, eyeing Kurt's restless leg with concern. "You could burn off some of that extra energy."

Kurt shrugged. "I tried already."

"Maybe another weekend at home, then," the doctor suggested. "It'd give you a chance to get out a little more. Patch things up with your dad."

Kurt nodded without saying anything.

"Promise me one thing, though."

"What?"

McManus smiled slightly. "Don't stay in the house while you're home," he said. "Go out. Do things with your family. See your friends."

Kurt swallowed, glancing at the floor. His leg wouldn't stop moving.

"Kurt, just because you're cooped up here most of the time doesn't mean you can't have a life before you get better," McManus insisted. "You have a big support network. Use it – not many people in your situation are that lucky."

"I know," Kurt said softly, not meeting McManus' eye.

"In the meantime, though, I'd like to try a slightly different strategy to get you closer to integration."

Kurt looked up again, grateful for the change of subject. "What strategy?"

"Have you ever tried keeping a journal?"

"You mean like…"

"With all the alters contributing, yes."

Kurt shifted in his seat – the leg he'd folded under him had fallen asleep. "My stepmom said I should try it a few months ago," he said. "Things were bad, though, so I guess it kind of fell off the table."

McManus stood and pulled a notebook down from his shelf, noticeably lacking a spiral binding (Kurt knew patients couldn't be trusted with any kind of wire, but the detail nearly made him roll his eyes anyway) and instead had a bound spine like a book. "Well, now that you're in an environment where this is the only thing you've got to worry about," McManus said, handing the notebook to Kurt. "Why don't we give it another shot?"

"I'm not allowed to have pens or pencils outside of art therapy," Kurt said.

"Already have that covered," McManus said, drawing an eight-pack of fine-tip Crayola markers out of a desk drawer.

"Seriously?"

McManus grinned. "Come on. Zack will love them, and you'll probably get a drawing or two out of it. You can put them on your wall."

Kurt laughed. "I don't think I want my own four-year-old doodles decorating my bedroom," he said, but tucked the notebook and markers under his arm.

"Try to get the alters to write in the journal as well. Some of them will be easier to convince than others, but just try and we'll see what you have in a couple days and go from there."

Kurt let out a heavy breath as he returned to the dorm room and sat cross-legged on his bed with the notebook in his lap. After a moment's indecision, he took the dark blue marker out of the Crayola pack and wrote _KURT_ in the center of the notebook cover.

* * *

><p>As the evening art therapy session drew to a close, Charlie made his rounds around the ward, checking to be sure that each resident had taken their medication. After going through the rigmarole of getting Scott's dosage of Clozapine down his throat (Scott hated taking his meds and it usually took more than one person and too much of Charlie's attention to coach him to swallow the pills), Charlie moved over to the card table where the usual group was playing Connect-Four.<p>

"Evening, guys," he greeted them with the tray of pill cups in his hand as the other nurses brought around trays of food for dinner.

"Cocktails!" Dustin exclaimed, holding his hand out immediately for the cup containing his mood stabilizers.

Charlie distributed the cups, watching the men at the table like a hawk – he was on good terms with all four of them, but that didn't mean he trusted them entirely. He nudged Kurt, who seemed to have spaced out for a second. "Come on, Kurt, bottoms up," he said.

Kurt blinked, then grabbed his cup and tipped the antipsychotic and antidepressant into his mouth. He swallowed, then opened his mouth wide to allow Charlie to peer inside and make sure the pills weren't stashed underneath his tongue.

Charlie nodded, satisfied that the four of them were sufficiently dosed, and moved on to another patient.

Out of the corner of his eye as he was handing Nick his meds, Charlie noticed Kurt get up from the table and stride back into his room, shutting the door behind him. Charlie frowned, finishing up with Nick as quickly as he could before following.

He knocked on Kurt and Scott's door. "Kurt?"

The door opened and Kurt reappeared on his way back out to the common room. "What's up?"

"Just checking on you."

Kurt quirked an eyebrow. "…I went to the bathroom."

Charlie's nose twitched – Kurt's breath smelled like vomit. _Fresh_ vomit.

"What?" Kurt pressed.

"Nothing," Charlie said, shaking his head. "Nothing, go ahead." He moved aside so that Kurt could go back to his table, then waited for Kurt to pass before ducking into the room himself. He opened the door to the bathroom (which also smelled like a just-emptied stomach). The toilet well was still hissing as it refilled.

Kurt was flushing his pills.

Charlie swallowed and left the room, heading straight for Dr. McManus' office.


	79. Dividing By Zero

_Dividing By Zero_

Now that Kurt was in the hospital, the Hudson-Hummel house belonged just to the Hudsons for the days that Burt was in Washington. Most evenings consisted of Carole not getting home from work until nearly seven and having barely enough energy to make dinner for the two of them before settling in on the couch to watch TV with Finn until she fell asleep (and then waking up around midnight to actually go to bed).

Today, Carole had gotten off work a little early and stopped by the tire shop to pick up Finn from his afternoon job and drive him home, though they still didn't pull in to the driveway until the same time as usual. Carole immediately went to work on dinner while Finn went upstairs to shower, and Burt called just as Carole was pulling the chicken fingers out of the oven.

"Hi, honey, how're you doing?" Carole smiled into the phone, holding the receiver between her ear and shoulder as she placed the hot baking sheet on top of the stove.

"_I'm okay,_" Burt said. "_Long day in the House._"

"You sound tired," she remarked.

"_I'm fine,_" he insisted. "_Everything okay at home?_"

"Yeah, don't worry so much. Finn's been doing an amazing job helping me with the shop."

"_The shop?_" Burt echoed. "_I thought Randy was supposed to handle that._"

"Oh, he does," Carole reassured him as she scooped servings of chicken and potatoes onto two plates. "But we own the shop, so Finn and I try to check up on it as much as you do when you're here, and either way Finn doesn't get an allowance any more so he's got to make money somehow." She held the receiver away from her mouth for a second to yell "Finn! Dinner!" over her shoulder. There was a _thump_ from upstairs, and then Finn's feet pounding down the staircase. "So how are things in DC?"

"_It's a bunch of old white guys like me yelling at each other all day about issues that have nothing to do with them,_" Burt replied as Finn walked into the kitchen and sat at the table. "_Same as always._"

"Sounds exciting," Carole remarked, dropping a plate in front of her son and sitting down across from him. "By the way, Dr. McManus called me this afternoon – looks like Kurt's coming home again this weekend."

Finn's attention snapped up with a frown. "He is?"

There was a relieved exhale on the other end of the phone, then a pause. "_Wait, is that good or bad?_"

"Burt, it's fine," she said. "Dr. McManus thinks it'll help the integration process if he comes home more often. You know, remind him that he's got a support network."

Finn was quiet, ignoring his meal and appearing deep in thought.

"_Okay,_" Burt said. "_So long as it's helping._"

"He'll be okay," Carole promised. "You just keep doing what you're doing. I love you."

"_Love you too. I'll let you go. Tell Finn I said hi._"

Carole hung up and placed the receiver on the table by her plate, taking a bite of chicken.

"So… Kurt'll be home this weekend?" Finn said, pushing his mashed potatoes around his plate.

"Yeah, we're picking him up on Friday. You want to come?"

"Uh, no, I'm good."

Carole swallowed, dropping her fork back onto her plate. "Finn, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Finn."

Finn sighed, chewing on the insides of his cheeks and not meeting Carole's eye. "I was just… I don't know," he started, his voice tight with frustration. "Is it really safe for him to be out of the hospital?"

"Dr. McManus seems to think it is," Carole replied, confused as to why Finn was so reluctant. She thought the boys had resolved the issue regarding Truman, or at the very least agreed that it wasn't Kurt's fault.

"He's never seen Kurt at home, though," Finn countered. "I mean, he doesn't know what Kurt's like."

"Finn!" Carole exclaimed.

"What? He doesn't," Finn protested.

Carole pressed her lips together, reining in her temper before responding. "Your brother is not a psychotic criminal, Finn, so don't talk about him like he is. Show a little respect."

Finn's gaze snapped up in alarm. "I never said he was a psychotic criminal!"

"Then what are you trying to say, Finn?" Carole demanded, her patience quickly running out.

"I-I…" Finn stammered. He tugged at his hair. "I just don't get why he has to come back."

Carole's frown deepened. "Finn, _your brother_ doesn't belong in that hospital," she said, her voice hard. "He doesn't live there. He lives _here_."

"Mom, that's not what I meant—"

"Okay." Carole leaned back in her chair. "Then what did you mean?"

Finn swallowed, his face contorting and the tendons in his neck tense. Carole didn't understand what was making him act like this – sure, he and Kurt and the alters had all had their differences, but the entire family had always counted on Finn to walk right next to them for as far as they went.

Although… now that Carole thought about it, maybe they'd been counting on him a little too much.

Finn let out another heavy breath. "This weekend sucked, Mom," he said quietly. "I know it wasn't Kurt's fault and he's still getting used to being back, but it was stressful, a-and scary, and—" He shook his head, staring at the wall.

"Honey," Carole started again, her tone softened. She leaned forward, propping her elbows against the table. "Try to put yourself in Kurt's shoes, okay? We're _all_ terrified, Finn, but it's worse for Kurt because he's alone in the hospital. Just telling him we love him isn't enough."

"I know," Finn said, still not looking at her.

"Kurt is struggling with a _lot_ of really frightening stuff right now, and you know that as well as Burt and me."

"I get it, Mom," Finn cut her off, his tone tightening again. "I know I don't have a right to complain."

Carole felt her heart wrench, and she reached forward to lay a hand over Finn's. "Yes, you do," she said.

"Really?" Finn snapped. "'Cause so far, every time I have I've gotten yelled at."

Carole swallowed, her throat constricted. She wanted to reassure him that it would be better once he graduated, once he was living independently and didn't have to constantly _worry_. But she couldn't think of any way to say it without making it sound like she was kicking him to the curb, so she kept her mouth shut.

Instead, she just kept her hand over his, leaning her cheek against her free hand and tiredly resting her head. "There's so much poison in this family," she sighed, almost to herself. "I'm so sorry, Finn."

Finn looked confused, but Carole didn't say anything more. She knew that everything toxic in their lives had actually made their little makeshift family unit stronger, but that didn't make her stop wishing it wasn't there. She just hoped the poison wouldn't spread farther than it already had.

* * *

><p>Breakfast in the hospital was noisier than one would generally expect. The patients were allowed to sleep late if they really needed to or if they'd had a rough time the day before, but the nurses usually got everyone up and out into the common room by seven-thirty. Kurt sat with Dustin, Bruce, and Robin every morning unless he was feeling particularly irritable or anxious, and none of them questioned it (which, frankly, was sort of nice).<p>

"Charlie, _please_ tell me they're giving us something other than the usual shit," Dustin drawled as Charlie delivered trays of food to their table, each with a tiny pill cup sitting idly by the toasted English muffin. "The eggs you guys use are fucking horrible."

"I told you, if you want something special, you've got to tell me ahead of time so that I can make a request to the kitchen staff," Charlie said. "Come on, guys, meds first."

Dustin stuck his tongue out, but dumped the contents of his pill cup into his mouth, making a show of swallowing loudly. Kurt chuckled and followed suit, allowing Charlie to look inside his mouth to confirm that he'd taken the medication, then reaching for his orange juice box as Charlie moved on to Bruce and Robin.

"Kurt, I want you to stay at the table for at least the next thirty minutes, okay?" Charlie said before he left, making Kurt's eyebrows snap together. "If you need to use the bathroom, tell me."

Kurt frowned, startled. "Why?"

"You have an appointment with Dr. McManus after you finish eating," Charlie replied, as if that explained everything, and then moved on to the other residents.

"Somebody's in trouble," Bruce remarked with a lopsided grin.

Kurt didn't respond.

* * *

><p>To make matters worse for Kurt, Dr. McManus looked less than pleased when Kurt finally entered his office after breakfast (and Kurt had noticed Charlie watching him closely throughout the meal, which only made him more nervous).<p>

"What's going on?" he asked as McManus shut the door behind him.

"Have a seat, Kurt."

Kurt took his usual spot on the couch, sinking onto the cushion slowly. He wasn't entirely sure why it felt like he'd just sat on a mousetrap.

McManus sat in the chair opposite, as per the usual. "Kurt, I need to ask you something, and it's paramount that you tell the truth here."

Kurt swallowed, his mind racing. "What's going on?" he repeated.

"You've been rejecting your medication."

Kurt froze, inside and outside. "…N-no, I haven't."

"Charlie told me you threw up the meds from yesterday evening—"

"What?"

"—and we don't know how long that's been going on."

"B-But I _haven't!_" Kurt cried, his heart thudding like a rabbit's. "I've been taking them every day, I swear!"

McManus let out a breath, setting his glasses on top of his head. "Then it's one of the alters," he sighed.

Kurt twisted his fingers together to keep them from shaking. "I-I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered. "I've been taking the meds. I haven't been switching as much. I—"

"Kurt," McManus cut him off gently. "You haven't been switching as much, but you're still switching more often than you should be if you were on the meds."

"But I _haven't!_" Kurt tugged at his hair, his fingers twitching in his lap. "I haven't been switching that much!" he repeated desperately.

"If someone in you is rejecting the pills, then you've been having transitions without noticing the blackouts, Kurt," McManus countered. "I'm sorry, but it happens. There's nothing we can do except figure out how to stop it."

Kurt's teeth gritted of their own accord, his intestines tying themselves into knots.

"I need you to stay with me, Kurt."

"I'm here," Kurt snapped, grappling for control.

"Why don't you want to take the medication?"

Kurt glared at the doctor in astonishment. "It's not _me_—"

"Forget the alters; the alters don't exist," McManus pressed, flapping a hand. "If they're all a part of you, then they do what you would do – you just don't know it because you can't connect the different parts of your mind. So, why don't _you_ want to take the meds?"

Kurt said nothing, his heart jumping hurtles beneath his ribs.

"Have you written in your journal at all?"

"Not yet."

McManus watched him in silence for a moment, his expression unreadable and enough to make Kurt's stomach curl. "You really have no idea why you'd try to fight integration?"

"No," Kurt insisted, his voice wavering. "Do you?"

"I've got a few theories. Other people have gone through the same thing," McManus answered, sitting back in his chair.

"And what… what did they say?"

"That they were scared."

* * *

><p>Scott was taking a nap when Kurt returned to his room, having ignored Dustin's invitation to hang out and instead retreating to what he'd hoped was a quiet spot. Instead, Scott was loudly snoring with his arm hanging off the side of the bed, and Kurt wished he had a pair of earplugs.<p>

He flopped down onto his mattress, staring at the ceiling and trying not to _think_. Dr. McManus had insisted that from now on Kurt stayed out in the common room for at least an hour after every dosage, so that the nurses (namely Charlie) could keep an eye on him and make sure the pills stayed down. Kurt didn't like it, but he knew there was no point in arguing.

It had to be Truman.

Truman was making him throw up the medication every time he took them (and he _had_ been taking them). Kurt didn't know why, but he couldn't think of anyone else it could be.

More than anything, Kurt felt uncontained, and that was _terrifying_.

Huffing a sigh, he sat up again and grabbed the notebook and markers off the top of his small bureau, sitting back against the wall behind the bed with his legs crossed and the notebook propped against his knees. He chewed on the end of the black fine-tip marker for a few seconds before forcing himself to begin writing.

_I hate being here_, he scrawled. _I feel like I'm going to literally fall apart at any second. Even with Craig gone it's still too crowded in my head and sometimes I want to just take a knife and cut them all out of—_

Kurt stopped, startled by what he'd just written, then quickly crossed out the second half of the sentence. He wasn't _that_ insane.

_I miss Craig. I think he kept us all together. Sort of, anyway. He was an asshole but at least he stood up to Truman. Now I just feel like Truman's constantly sneaking up behind me. Eleanor's always shaking like a bomb waiting to go off, and I keep feeling Zack trying to hide. To be honest, it's starting to hurt and I don't—_

Kurt jumped, blinking as he sensed a lapse in time. He was pretty sure he'd only blacked out for a couple of seconds, though, since Scott was still snoring in his bed. The jolt from coming back so quickly was still fading from his limbs, and he glanced down at his notebook. There was nothing there that he couldn't remember writing, no unfamiliar scribbles in someone else's penmanship.

He swallowed, his joints feeling loose and filled with static, then shut the notebook and tossed it onto the bed beside him.

He stopped short, picking up the notebook again and staring at the cover.

Just below where he'd written his own name in blue, _ELEANOR _was scrawled in bright red.

He smiled.


	80. Trouble On The Rooftop

_Trouble On The Rooftop_

The lights flashing red and blue momentarily blinded Burt as he jumped out of his car, leaving it haphazardly parked on the shoulder of the road and running toward the cluster of ambulances and police cars. He could see a red pickup truck with its front bent inwards and its windshield smashed, and on the bank sloping down from the road, an enormous twisted piece of metal covered in broken glass that he barely recognized as his wife's minivan.

An officer caught him by the shoulder and stopped him before he could run to the wrecked car. "Sir! I'm going to ask you to step back," she ordered, her hand pressing against his hollow chest.

"N-no, my wife's in there!" he stammered, and he could barely hear his own voice over the blood pounding in his ears and head and fingers. "M-my son— please—"

Burt shoved the officer's arm away and ran to the wreckage, his bad knee be damned. "Linda!" he called, his boots skidding on the gravel bank. His hands scrabbled at the door (or what was left of it) and pulled it back from its bent frame, the hinges screaming as it fell back against the side of the car.

"Sir!" the officers were shouting behind him. "_Sir!_ Step away from the vehicle!"

Burt couldn't breathe. The van was tilted and the only reason Linda hadn't fallen into the passenger seat was because she was held in place by her seat belt, which hadn't done much for her. Her brown curly hair was stringy and thick with blood, and her face barely recognizable. Her torso was bent at an odd angle, her shoulder ripped open by a jagged scrap of metal.

His eyes finally found the passenger seat, and his heart screeched to a halt when he realized it was empty.

He couldn't think, couldn't move.

A pair of hands suddenly grabbed him from behind, yanking him back up toward the road. He pushed the officer away. "Where's my son?" he demanded. "Where is he?"

"Sir, please calm down—"

"_Where is he?!_"

"Who?"

"Kurt! My _son!_" Burt's hands were shaking, clenched into fists.

The officer frowned, glancing momentarily between Burt and the crumpled minivan. "Sir… there was no one else in the vehicle."

* * *

><p>Burt jolted awake, sucking in a gulp of air too cold for his lungs. Breathing hard, he lay where he was, staring at the ceiling of his hotel room and trying to shake the nightmare from his head. The alarm clock on the bedside table glowed green, casting the room in an eerie not-quite-real light that made Burt queasy (which was strange, since he'd always stayed in this hotel when he was in Washington and it had never made him feel like this before).<p>

It was 4:26, and he wasn't going to get any more sleep tonight.

Throwing back the covers, Burt pulled himself out of bed and went over to the window, pushing the curtains aside and looking out at the city sprawled below. It wasn't quite dawn but he could see the faint outline of a few clouds against a slightly lightened sky. The shadow of the Washington Monument stood in the distance.

Burt rubbed the sleep from his eyes, trying to rid himself of the images that hadn't yet faded from the backs of his eyelids. Logically, he knew that it had only been a dream. Kurt had never gone missing, and Burt had never even been to the crash site himself.

But he'd still had to identify Linda's body, and he'd picked up Kurt from the police station at five in the morning. The two of them had slept on the couch together for the rest of that day, and Kurt hadn't spoken a word for almost a week.

Leaning forward, Burt rested his forehead against the window, letting the glass cool him down as he watched the early-morning traffic. He just wanted to be at home.

* * *

><p>Kurt's stomach hadn't stopped churning since Dr. McManus had confronted him about rejecting his medication, and the twisting feeling in his gut only made him feel more restless than usual. It was nearly impossible to sit still, and no matter what Kurt did to occupy himself, he always got bored of it in only a few minutes.<p>

In a desperation produced by the deadly combination of severe boredom and equally severe anxiety, Kurt bailed out of art therapy early and asked Charlie for his iPod. He hadn't listened to music in what felt like (and probably was) months. Maybe all he needed was a little auditory stimulation.

Since the nurses wouldn't allow him to use the iPod in his bedroom, Kurt had to lie down on the couch out in the open while the rest of the ward residents continued to participate in the art therapy class on the other side of the room. Letting his feet dangle over the arm of the couch, Kurt stuck his headphones in his ears and draped his forearm over his eyes to block out the fluorescent lights on the ceiling.

He probably should have been using the time to write in his journal, but he'd already tried today and he couldn't keep still long enough to produce more than a few words. It wasn't worth it.

Even with the music blaring in his ears, it was still _too quiet._

Kurt had told Dr. McManus the truth – he didn't know who had been rejecting the meds. But he couldn't help constantly feeling as if Truman was sneaking up behind him, and Kurt had no idea how to defend himself.

It wasn't the first time it had struck Kurt just how _alone_ he was.

"Hey, Kurt! Kurt!"

Kurt blinked at the ceiling, lifting his head and tugging one earbud out. Dustin was waving at him as the other residents cleaned up after the art therapy class. Robin and Bruce were setting up the Connect Four board. Again.

"Hey, Kurt, you joining in on this round?" Dustin asked.

A spike of irritation stabbed upwards from Kurt's stomach into his throat. "Don't you ever get sick of playing Connect Four?"

Dustin frowned. "Uh, no?"

"Everyone's got a routine," Robin chimed in.

"It's _boring_," Kurt said, unable to keep his frustration in check as he let his head fall back against the couch cushion.

"Well, if you don't want to play, you don't have to," Dustin snapped, plopping into his chair at the table with a huff.

"Okay, then." Kurt placed the earbud back in his ear and shut his eyes.

Apparently, though, Dustin wasn't finished, and he twisted around in the chair to glare at Kurt a second time, earning awkwardly confused glances from Robin and Bruce.

"You know, you're really stuck up."

Kurt sat up, pulling his headphones off entirely. "Excuse me?"

"Every day, you go around acting like you're not crazy, like you don't belong here—"

"What are you talking about?" Kurt demanded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the orderlies standing up and edging closer.

"_Newsflash_, Kurt!" Dustin spat, throwing up his hands in an overdramatized gesture. "_You're crazy!_"

"Stop it," Kurt said, his lungs shrinking beneath his ribs.

"You're not better than us," Dustin continued. "You're a drooling, medicated, fucking _mental patient_."

"Stop it!" Kurt barked, jumping to his feet.

"In fact, _you've_ spent more time in solitary than any of us!"

"That wasn't me!" Kurt hissed, his voice shaking and his fists clenched.

Dustin rolled his eyes with a scoff. "Yeah, like that makes you sound sane and stable."

Something _clicked_ in Kurt's head, and he lurched forward, sensing his muscles curl into attack mode.

(He didn't want to acknowledge how _attack_ felt foreign and familiar at the same time.)

Before he could punch Dustin in the jaw, an orderly seized Kurt from behind and Charlie appeared between them, bracing a hand against Kurt's chest. "Cool it, Kurt," he said firmly.

Kurt jerked against the orderly's iron hold. "Get off me!"

"Calm down and I will," the orderly replied evenly.

"He started it!" Kurt spat in Dustin's direction.

"I don't care," Charlie countered. "If you don't calm down, I'm taking you to solitary."

That made Kurt's blood run cold, but he gritted his teeth and forced his shoulders to relax. It was suddenly difficult to pull air into his lungs.

"Okay," Charlie said as the orderly released Kurt. "Both of you have a warning." He glanced pointedly at Dustin before picking up Kurt's iPod from the couch. "_This_ is going back to the nurses' station, and I don't want any more funny business."

"Yes, sir," Dustin drawled tightly.

Kurt swallowed, the tendons in his neck rigid.

"Come on, Kurt," Charlie spoke in an undertone so that only Kurt could hear him. "You're going home this weekend. Try to keep it together until then."

Kurt didn't want to give Charlie the satisfaction of a response, so he turned on his heel and went to his room, slamming the door behind him.

It was a bad idea.

Kurt abruptly felt _compressed_. It was hard to move, like the air was as thick as molasses. He leaned back against the door, hoping it would feel more solid than the walls.

He was suffocating.

_Help me_, he thought, not having the faintest idea who the prayer was addressed to. There were no voices in his head besides his own, and the silence was terrifying.

_Why aren't you answering me?!_

Minutes passed as Kurt tried to concentrate on breathing and not completely falling apart where he stood. Even with the lights on the bedroom was darker than the common room, and it was nerve-wracking.

The shoebox containing the stack of letters glared at him from where it sat untouched on top of his tiny bureau, daring him for the millionth time to open it.

_I'm not crazy_, he thought. _Screw it_.

He seized the box and sat on the bed with it in his lap. His pulse pounded his eardrums as he lifted the lid, hesitating to reach inside. His stomach clenched.

Blaine's letter was on top, but he pushed it to the side, fighting a rock in his throat. He wasn't ready for that one quite yet. Instead, he picked up Brittany's first, ripping the envelope open and unfolding the piece of notepaper inside.

_Hi, Kurt. I just wanted to say that I love you a lot and I can't wait  
>until you come back. Santana explained everything to me. I know<br>__you're not on a quest, but I still believe in you. If you want,  
>I can ask Santana to beat up the other people in your head. <em>

_Love, Brittany._

Kurt smiled, the rock in his throat growing bigger. Brittany was… well, Brittany, and it was comforting. He sat back against the wall behind his bed and picked up the envelope from Santana.

Instead of a flowery speech involving promises of faith, Santana's letter was short and to the point.

_If you don't get better soon, I'm going to break down  
>the door to the hospital and kick your ass back into one piece.<br>Brittany's not going to be happy again until you are._

Kurt couldn't repress a chuckle, quickly followed by a sniff and he had to hastily wipe his eyes before the paper was blotted. Setting Santana's letter on top of Brittany's, Kurt took a deep breath and drew Puck's envelope from the box.

The message Puck had written was even shorter than Santana's.

_Hey, Kurt. We all miss you, dude._

Well, brevity had always been Puck's strong suit.

Rachel's letter consisted of a full three double-sided pages crammed with get-well wishes and school gossip, peppered with _I-love-yous_ and _I-miss-yous_. Kurt wouldn't have been surprised if she'd written three drafts of it. His attention was jumping from place to place, though, and he was pretty sure that he'd ended up skipping through at least half of it. Oh, well. He'd come back to it later.

After reading through get-well notes from Artie, Tina, and Mercedes, Kurt let out a heavy exhale and sat back. Only Blaine's envelope remained, lying inconspicuously at the bottom of the shoebox.

His pulse thudding from his chest all the way into his fingertips, Kurt picked up the letter and tore it open, unfolding the single piece of paper inside. The note wasn't nearly as long as he'd been expecting, but then again, Kurt wasn't sure what he'd been expecting to begin with. The words on the page blurred, and Kurt had to wipe his eyes again before he tried to read.

_So, this is the twelfth time I've tried to write this, and I'm  
>still not sure what to say… Well, I have a lot to say. But<br>I'm pretty sure you know what most of it is, so I'll try to keep this short._

The paper shook in Kurt's fingers, making it more difficult to make out. Kurt held it tightly with both hands, attempting to keep it steady.

_I want you to get better, Kurt. I miss you – not just us.  
>I mean, I miss us too, but I really, really miss seeing you happy.<em>

_Come to think of it, I'm not even sure if you were happy. That scares me._

Kurt's throat constricted, making him momentarily gasp for air.

_Anyways. I don't want you to feel like I'm pressuring you,  
>so I'm just going to say outright that I'm not expecting you<br>to take me back. I know you don't want me near you right  
>now, and I understand that. I'll keep my distance, I promise.<em>

_But I'm here for you all the same, Kurt.  
>I'll be anything you need and nothing more.<em>


	81. Vital Signs

_Vital Signs_

Lunch period on Friday found Finn in the choir room rather than the cafeteria with the rest of the student body. Thankfully, Mr. Schue had already retreated to the faculty lounge by the time Finn walked in, thus saving him from whatever concerned questions Mr. Schue would have tried to assault him with. Normally, Finn would have just sucked it up and gone to lunch, but since Kurt was going to be home by dinnertime he wasn't sure how much solitude he'd get over the next two days.

So, rather than sit and listen to the tedious exchanges of gossip at the lunch table, Finn picked up a pair of beaten sticks from the shelf behind the piano and took his frustration out on the drum set. Allowing the rhythmic beating to deaden his eardrums and reverberate up his bones into his shoulders, Finn pushed his anxiety to the back of his head, ignoring it for as long as he could.

It wasn't until one of the drumsticks finally snapped in two, half of it spinning off the drum and clattering across the floor, that Finn realized Blaine had entered the room and was standing by the piano.

"Oh," Finn said lamely. "Hey, dude. I didn't see you come in."

Blaine's expression was hard to read, falling somewhere between nervous apprehension and genuine concern. "I was getting my books… I heard you drumming and— What are you doing?"

Finn shrugged, getting up to retrieve the broken stick. "Cheap therapy, I guess," he replied.

"…Oh." Blaine frowned, then glanced at the door over his shoulder. "I can leave if you want."

For a brief moment Finn considered telling Blaine he wanted to be by himself, but he figured that Blaine was probably just as frustrated as him and probably wouldn't try to push him too hard for anything Finn didn't want to share. "Nah, it's okay," he said.

"Are you not eating lunch?"

Finn shrugged again. "Not really hungry." He dropped the broken stick into the trash.

"What's going on?" The crease in Blaine's forehead deepened slightly as he leaned against the piano, gently prodding but ready to pull back.

Finn exhaled slowly, not meeting Blaine's eye. "Kurt's coming home tonight," he said. "Just for the weekend, but still."

Blaine didn't respond for a few seconds. "And… that's bad?"

"No."

"You don't seem to think it's good either."

Finn sighed, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. "I don't know if it's good or bad," he confessed. "That's why I'm worried."

Blaine nodded, seeming at a loss for how to react. "You worry about him a lot, don't you?" he asked quietly.

Finn's stomach clenched, his abdomen aching. "All the time."

The corners of Blaine's mouth twitched. "Yeah, me too."

* * *

><p>Carole made pancakes for dinner. Finn wasn't sure if it was intentional this time, but she'd always made pancakes for him whenever he'd needed cheering up as a kid, so it wasn't surprising that she was doing the same for Kurt. Finn ate slowly while Burt talked about what he'd done in DC during the week (it was obvious no one really cared – at least besides Carole – but silence was worse than small talk).<p>

Kurt was eating even more slowly than Finn, looking almost sick with every swallow and his eyes remaining downcast. Finn thought Kurt was probably just eating to make Carole feel better. Trying not to be too obvious, Finn watched Kurt as closely as he could. All of his stepbrother's movements seemed weighted, as if it took ten times the effort as usual just to lift his arm or blink. Overall, Kurt just seemed… defeated.

"Kurt and I will clean up," Burt offered quickly once Carole started to clear the table. He gave her a pointed nod in Finn's direction, which immediately made Finn's joints tense up. Clapping Kurt on the shoulder, Burt collected the stacked plates and pulled Kurt into the kitchen.

"What's going on?" Finn asked, his hands in his lap.

Carole bit her lip, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Sweetie, we need to keep an extra close eye on Kurt this weekend," she said, pulling her chair closer to him. "Dr. McManus said that he's been throwing up his medication."

Finn blinked. "…But they're trying to make him better; why would he—"

Carole shook her head, cutting him off. "No, it's not Kurt who's been doing it. He didn't know it was happening."

The muscles in Finn's gut tightened around his stomach. "Then who—"

"We don't know."

Finn let out a huff of breath, already feeling slightly crushed by this new addition to the pile. He swallowed, raking his fingers through his hair. "Do you think Kurt's going to make it?" he asked.

Carole reached over to squeeze Finn's forearm. "Finn, Kurt's one of the strongest kids I've ever met. If anyone can survive this, it's him."

"Doesn't seem like it," Finn mumbled. "He just looks tired." _Like he's losing._

"That's the medication," Carole said. "He hasn't been on it for a couple of weeks at least, so his body has to readjust. It'll just take some time."

Finn kept his mouth shut, fighting the urge to reply that it had already taken too much time.

* * *

><p>As Burt and Kurt went about cleaning up the dishes and pots and pans, Carole's kitchen radio played quietly from the corner, filling the voids in their conversation. Burt felt worse now than he had since the day Dr. Goldberg had delivered the official diagnosis. Kurt wasn't ignoring Burt, wasn't refusing to talk or acknowledge him, wasn't even trying to make excuses to go up to his room and be alone. But he wasn't looking Burt (or Finn or Carole) in the eye, and his responses to any questions or conversation starters were flat and short and not seeking further interaction. He wasn't even moving the way he had been a week ago.<p>

He just… _was not_.

"They've been playing this song on this station a lot," Burt said lamely, nodding at the radio as he filled the dishwasher. "Didn't you sing it with your club once?"

Kurt glanced at the radio for only half a second, as if he hadn't noticed it was playing. "Maybe," he said. "I don't remember."

"It's seven o'clock; you should take your meds."

Burt almost wanted Kurt to fight, argue, to snap that he didn't need reminding… _anything_ other than the deserted look in his eyes. But instead Kurt only put down the sponge he'd been using to wipe down the sink and pulled the bottle containing the weekend's dosage from the outer pocket of his duffel bag, which was still resting on the table from when they'd gotten back two hours ago. He shook two pills out into his palm.

Then, in a gesture that startled Burt enough to make his heart skip, Kurt turned around to face him and popped the pills into his mouth, swallowing and opening his jaw wide so that Burt could see all the way to the back of his throat. He lifted his tongue, showing that the pills were not stashed out of sight, then closed his mouth and wordlessly replaced the cap on the pill bottle. He set it on the counter by the toaster.

Burt coughed, not sure if he was supposed to acknowledge the behavior. "You want some water?" he said.

Kurt shook his head. "I'm fine." He picked up the sponge again, finishing up the sink as Burt started the dishwasher, then went back to sit at the table.

Burt frowned. "You want to take your stuff up to your room?"

"I have to stay with someone for forty-five minutes," Kurt replied flatly, making Burt feel like crap for momentarily forgetting the restriction Dr. McManus had imposed.

"…Right." Burt swallowed, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Do you want some tea or something?"

"I'm fine," Kurt repeated, fingering the edge of the notebook resting next to his duffel. He'd brought the notebook back with him from the hospital, but Burt had never seen it before.

"What's that?" he asked.

Kurt stiffened slightly, pulling the notebook closer. "Nothing."

Burt sighed, sinking into the chair opposite Kurt. He pushed the duffel to the side so there was nothing solid between them. "Kurt, why aren't you talking to me?" he asked.

"I am," Kurt responded, studying the skin on the backs of his knuckles.

"No, you're not."

Burt waited for nearly half a minute before Kurt (at long last) looked him directly in the eye.

"Dad, I really… _really_ don't want to talk," he said, his voice just as flat as it had been for the entire evening. "About anything."

Burt's teeth gritted of their own accord, his fingertips going cold. "Do you mean with anyone? Or just with me?"

Kurt sighed, his mouth pursing almost imperceptibly. "Both," he said.

Burt didn't press any further after that, and the two of them ended up in the living room for the next hour, watching the ESPN recaps of a baseball game involving teams Burt didn't care enough about to mention. Kurt remained quiet, not even complaining about the players' stirrup pants.

* * *

><p>In the middle of the night, Burt woke from a restless sleep with the sheets tangled around his legs. His muscles were tense from his neck down into his legs, and the air felt too thin as it passed slowly through his lungs.<p>

Next to him, Carole shifted closer to him. "You okay, Burt?" she mumbled, half-asleep.

"I'm okay," he said, pushing the covers back. "Be right back."

Leaving Carole in bed, Burt closed the door behind him as quietly as he could, yawning as he walked down the hall to the bathroom. Splashing water on his face made him feel better, if for only a few seconds. He rubbed exhaustedly at his eyes before shutting the light off and heading back to bed.

Halfway down the hall, Burt stopped short, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck standing on end. He held his breath, turning to put his ear to Kurt's door, then felt his heart screech to a stop.

"Kurt?" Burt opened the door without knocking, striding quickly around the foot of the bed. Kurt was lying on his side, his fingers digging into the mattress and his mouth open. He was gasping, the air hitching unevenly in his chest.

A touch of panic slipped into Burt's voice as he sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping his hands around Kurt's shoulders. "Kurt. Kurt, what's wrong?" he demanded.

Kurt's whole body was shaking as he tried to inhale, Burt's hand on his back. His eyes were wide and Burt couldn't tell if Kurt knew he was there.

"What's wrong?" Burt repeated, praying that Kurt would respond. "If you can't talk, blink twice so I know you can hear me."

The air halted in Kurt's lungs, a groan forced out of his throat as his fingers twisted into the blankets. "C-Can't— can't br-breathe," he choked, his ribs shuddering.

"Okay, come on," Burt said, gripping Kurt's shoulder and winding his other hand around Kurt's. "You can do this. Hold my hand. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Come on."

Kurt squeezed Burt's fingers for only a second, as if he didn't have the energy to spare. The air was clogging his lungs, his torso shuddering as he struggled to exhale. Burt took their clasped hands and pressed them to Kurt's chest, feeling Kurt's heart beating at an alarmingly rapid and unsteady pace.

"Come on, Kurt," Burt said. "Let the air out."

"I c-can't—" Kurt gasped.

"Yes, you can. Let it out; I've got you."

Kurt's mouth opened and closed, the muscles in his chest clenching around his ribs, tensing and releasing beneath Burt's fingers. Burt gently pressed on Kurt's breastbone, making Kurt momentarily choke.

Then, with a hoarse cough, the air rushed out of Kurt's lungs. He sucked in a fresh breath, hissing through his teeth, and held it for several seconds before letting it out as evenly as he could. Burt could feel Kurt's heart slowing.

"Better?" Burt said, running his fingers through Kurt's hair, his other hand still held to Kurt's chest.

Kurt didn't reply, his body still shaking. There were tears beginning to blot the pillow under his cheek.

"What can I do, Kurt?" Burt asked softly, his tone almost desperate. "Tell me what you need."

A sob wrenched out of Kurt's throat, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment.

"Kurt—"

"C-Can you—?" Kurt started, pulling his hand out of Burt's to gesture vaguely towards his still-packed duffel resting on the floor next to his bureau. He was crying and seemed unable to complete his sentence, so Burt got up and unzipped the bag, not sure what he was looking for.

Raleigh was lying on top.

His heart splitting in two, Burt held up the elephant. "This?"

Kurt nodded, and Burt returned to the bed. Kurt tucked Raleigh against his chest, his arms trembling as he tried to steady his breathing.

Burt's fingers ran through Kurt's hair again. "Kurt, what's going on? Please talk to me."

Kurt said something too quiet for Burt to hear.

"What?"

"Please don't send me back," he repeated, his voice cracking.

Burt frowned, not sure if he understood fully.

"Don't send me back, Dad, please."

"To the hospital? Kurt, they're helping you."

Kurt's face contorted, a fresh stream of tears running from his eyes to the tip of his nose. His arms tightened around Raleigh. "I can't breathe," he whispered.

Burt had no idea what to do. He was just… _useless_, and it was enough to make him want to scream.

Kurt let out an odd sort of sigh, making the hairs on Burt's arms prickle, and Raleigh fell abandoned to the floor.

"Kurt?" Burt ventured, but Kurt's eyes had gone cold. He wasn't crying any more. Burt's throat constricted as he recognized Schism behind his son's face.

It was silent in the room now, but Burt could barely hear it over the ringing in his ears. He wanted to talk, to beg Kurt to look him in the eye and tell him what the hell was going on in his head. But Schism wasn't about to acknowledge him, let alone hold a conversation, so Burt was left sitting helplessly on the edge of the bed, hoping that Kurt would come back.

The minutes ticked by, and finally Burt pulled himself to his feet. He'd have to talk to Kurt in the morning – or at least try. As he turned to leave, however, the notebook resting on Kurt's desk caught his eye. Glancing once at Kurt, who was staring blankly back at him, Burt wondered if Kurt would remember any of this, then picked up the notebook. He wasn't sure why it felt heavier than it probably should have.

Burt leaned over and pressed a kiss to Kurt's head, then took the notebook and shut Kurt's bedroom door behind him.

Logically, Burt knew he shouldn't have taken it. He knew that whatever it was, Kurt wanted to keep it private. But if Kurt wanted to get better, he couldn't keep _everything_ private, and he wasn't talking to Burt, so really what was Burt supposed to do?

In his home office down the hall, Burt switched on his desk lamp and sat down. The cover of the notebook was marked with three names – Kurt in blue, Eleanor in red, and Zack in green. His heart thudding from his chest to his toes, Burt opened to the first page and began to read.

There were only a handful of used pages, and most of the content was in Kurt's penmanship. It was almost worse that what Kurt was writing about – wanting to scream and being sick of feeling trapped and helpless – was nothing new to Burt. He'd known this was exactly what Kurt was feeling and yet they _still_ couldn't talk about it.

There were a couple of pages of nonsensical doodles from Zack, and a few lines from Eleanor splintered through Kurt's handwriting.

_WATCH OUT FOR TRUMAN HE'S COMING_

Burt swallowed, flipping through the pages until he reached one that made him flinch. Across the spread of two full pages were only three large letters, the lines written over and over so thick that they bled through to the surrounding pages.

_R E D_

His blood pounding in his ears, Burt flipped through the rest of the notebook. There was nothing else written after those three letters.

"Red," he said aloud, as if the word held some sort of magical ability to suddenly become understood once heard. It didn't, though, and he was left in confusion.

Eventually, he gave up as the sky outside began to gradually lighten from black to grey to pale blue. With _RED _glaring at him from the back of his head, Burt closed the notebook and returned to Kurt's room to quietly put it back.

Schism had apparently retreated into the back of Kurt's head, allowing Kurt to fall into deep sleep. Burt's chest tightened – even asleep, Kurt looked drained and too big for his bones. Raleigh had been retrieved from the floor and was tucked tightly into Kurt's arms, and Burt had no idea if Tyler had shown up or if it was an indication of how unsafe Kurt felt even at home.

Burt carefully put the notebook where he'd found it, then tiptoed downstairs to make coffee and wait for Kurt to wake up.


	82. Mount Vesuvius

_Mount Vesuvius_

Weekend breakfasts at Will and Emma's apartment were always fairly extravagant, thanks to Emma's penchant for ornate edible fruit bowls and almost ridiculously complicated baked cucumber boats, but it was a routine they both enjoyed. Mostly Emma, though.

Still, there was usually more conversation between the two of them on Saturday mornings. Today, it was quieter at the table than it had been in a long time.

"You seem preoccupied," Emma remarked, swallowing her last bite of cantaloupe.

Will blinked, his attention brought back down to earth. "Oh, sorry," he shook his head. "I'm just worried about the kids. Nationals is coming up and they just… seem out of sync."

Emma chewed thoughtfully on a grape. "Why, because of Kurt?"

"I don't know. Maybe." He shrugged. "Probably," he admitted. "Right now, it's like they don't care about the competition. Besides Rachel, anyway."

"What songs are you doing?"

Will glanced up at the ceiling for a moment in thought. "Uh, _You'll Be In My Heart_, _Hopelessly Devoted To You_, and—"

Emma's eyes widened, and she quickly cut him off. "Wait, wait a minute… is this set list dedicated to Kurt again?"

Will frowned in confusion. "Yeah. Why?"

"Whose decision was that?"

"Mine…" he said slowly. "The kids thought it was great last time, and it won us Regionals." Another shrug. "It gave them a real connection with the songs."

Emma swallowed. She loved Will, to be sure, but he could be the most naïve person in the world so easily. "And did you ever think that they might not want to sing songs about Kurt?" she inquired.

Will blinked.

"I think," she continued gently, "that if they want to dedicate the performance to Kurt, it should be their decision. Let them pick the songs. You can't dictate what they're feeling, Will. Or how they deal with it."

Will sighed. "You're right," he said. "As always."

"Sorry."

"No, no, it's good. Thanks, Em." He smiled tightly, popping a slice of apple into his mouth and chewing it for longer than was probably necessary.

"What's wrong?" Emma prodded, already feeling guilty for having spoken up.

"Nothing, Emma, I just… I feel really…" He trailed off, his mouth pressed into a thin line and his eyes studying the tablecloth. "Useless," he finished.

"Yeah, me too," Emma confessed. She coughed lightly, adjusting her napkin in her lap. "I've actually been thinking a lot about that lately."

"Come to any brilliant conclusions?"

"Maybe," Emma chuckled. "But I think that maybe the reason we feel so incompetent is because we've been trying to do something that can't really be done."

Will frowned, genuinely confused. "Are you saying they don't need support?"

"No, gosh, not at all," she recovered quickly. "No, they definitely need that, but… they don't need it from a teacher. I mean, part of the reason I never spoke to Kurt directly about his problems was that I wasn't someone who had any say in what he did."

Will was still frowning, but now it looked more like indignation than anything else. "You were his guidance counselor."

"Right. Not his doctor," Emma replied. "Not his parent. And I know it seems like it a lot of the time, but there's no such thing as friendship between teachers and students."

* * *

><p>At the Hudson-Hummel house, breakfast didn't start until nearly ten, since both Kurt and Finn were late waking up and Burt and Carole didn't feel much like ingesting anything other than coffee. Burt had been checking on Kurt every half hour or so, and Carole was busy making eggs and bacon when Finn finally stumbled downstairs, half-asleep and hungry.<p>

"Morning," Carole greeted him as he heaved himself onto a stool at the counter island, yawning. Burt was sipping his coffee at the kitchen table. "How'd you sleep?"

"Lousy," Finn answered. "Kurt's up too, by the way. He's hogging the shower."

"Oh, good, we were starting to worry about him," Carole said, scooping still-steaming pancakes onto a plate and sliding it in front of Finn. "I have to take the afternoon shift today. I was thinking maybe you and Kurt could go out with some friends today," she suggested. "You know, get out of the house."

Finn frowned slightly, swallowing. "Uh… are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Dr. McManus says it'd be best if Kurt's not stuck around here for the whole weekend," Carole answered, shutting the stove off. "He's trapped in the ward all week; it's not going to do him any good if he feels the same way at home."

"I meant for the others," Finn muttered. "What if he switches?"

"He's on his meds now, Finn. He'll be okay."

Burt stood up from the table to put his coffee cup into the sink, rubbing a hand over his bald head. "Carole's right, Finn. Kurt needs some fresh air."

Finn opened his mouth (to argue or agree, Carole wasn't entirely sure), but Kurt walked into the kitchen then, his hair still wet from the shower, and Finn swallowed whatever he'd been about to say. Burt swallowed too, but Carole didn't know what he was holding back.

She smiled at her stepson. "Morning, honey. Want some eggs?"

Kurt's answer was delayed by a yawn, his eyes scrunching shut as he ran a hand through his damp hair. "I think I'll just have some cereal," he said, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

Carole immediately moved toward the cereal cupboard, but Kurt stopped her and told her he could make it himself. "Okay," Carole backed off, retrieving her cup of coffee and leaning back against the counter instead.

Burt moved to get out of Kurt's way, reaching over to squeeze Kurt's shoulder as he passed. But Kurt turned and surprised Burt by wrapping his arms around Burt's torso.

More than anything else, Burt looked shocked, and Carole suddenly felt as if she were intruding on a very private moment between father and son. A quick glance at Finn told her that her own son felt the same way, and as Burt returned the embrace, both Hudsons looked away to allow the Hummels some semblance of privacy.

* * *

><p>Artie had been surprised when Finn called him Saturday morning to see if he wanted to hang out at the Lima Bean for a bit with him and Kurt, but he hadn't hesitated to say yes. (Well, okay, he hadn't hesitated for <em>long<em>.) He ended up arriving before Kurt and Finn did, occupying a few couches and squashy armchairs by the window of the coffee shop with Puck, Rachel, and Santana. All of them sat sucking down large coffees and chatting until Rachel sat bolt upright, looking out the window.

"There he is!" she exclaimed, and Artie turned with Puck and Santana to follow Rachel's gaze.

Kurt was just climbing down out of Finn's truck on the other side of the parking lot, jogging slightly to catch up with Finn's long strides. Artie couldn't help but notice that there was no improvement in Kurt's wardrobe since the last time they'd seen him. Not that Artie understood Kurt's wardrobe choices, but he wasn't ignorant enough to think that a grey hoodie and black jeans should be normal for Kurt.

"Jesus, Berry, will you stop bouncing?" Santana snapped, wrinkling her nose at Rachel.

"He looks… skinny," said Puck.

"He's always been skinny," Santana replied.

Puck didn't say anything in response to that, only frowning until Kurt and Finn actually entered the café.

Rachel jumped up and ran straight to Kurt, almost knocking him over as she threw her arms around his shoulders (not an easy task for Rachel, who was easily three feet shorter than Kurt – or maybe Artie's perception was skewed). Artie rolled toward them, followed by the other two as Rachel let go, allowing Kurt to breathe.

"How are you?" she asked.

Kurt gave her a half-smile. "I'm fine."

Puck reached over for a high five, which Kurt tentatively returned. "It's good to see you, dude."

Artie also exchanged a high five, trying not to let it show that he thought Puck was right – Kurt had always been skinny, but now there seemed to be less of him there.

Santana stayed out of Kurt's personal space, instead giving a surprisingly genuine and affectionate smile and saying, "I missed you, Legolas."

Kurt chuckled, and Artie was relieved to hear that it didn't sound forced.

Finn clapped Kurt on the shoulder. "Come on, let's go order."

"Kurt, can I talk to you for a second?" Artie cut in before Kurt could follow Finn to the counter. The others were moving back to the couches.

Kurt frowned, but stayed where he was. "Finn, could you get me just a decaf Earl Grey?" he asked. Finn nodded, glancing worriedly at Artie for a second before joining the line. "Thanks."

Artie's eyebrows rose slightly. "Decaf?" he echoed. "I thought you were a total caffeine junkie."

Kurt shrugged, letting his hands rest in his hoodie pockets. "It messes with my medication," he said. "What's up?"

Artie reached around to pull his backpack off the handles of his wheelchair, setting it in his lap to unzip it. He pulled out a set of three miniature cassette tapes and held them out to Kurt. "I wanted to give these to you. It's all the footage from the documentary."

Kurt's brows knitted in confusion, the shadows under his eyes tightening slightly. "Don't you need them?"

"No, I'm…" Artie shook his head. "I'll find something else to film."

There were only two reasons why Artie was stopping his film project – one, that it really was Kurt's business what happened in his own head, and two, Artie was afraid of seeing any more of Kurt's head than he already had.

"Okay," Kurt said, sliding the tapes into his hoodie pocket. "Thanks."

Artie hoped that Kurt would understand the first reason without realizing the second.

* * *

><p>To Finn's relief, the conversation stayed away from the topics of Kurt's illness and hospitalization. Instead, they chatted about more superficial things – exchanging gossip, making fun of Mr. Schue's lesson plans, the usual. For the time being, Finn felt a little lighter, content to sit where he was and slowly work his way through an extra-large mocha. It was a welcome change to see Kurt a little bit more animated and invested in the goings-on around him, rather than looking like a puppet forgotten on a dusty shelf.<p>

"So Mr. Schue is being a complete tyrant with the song choices for Nationals and not letting me sing _My Heart Will Go On_—"

Rachel was cut off by a laugh from Kurt. "Rachel, that song is cheesier than the majority of songs Mr. Schue chooses, and that's saying something."

Rachel pouted. "I thought you loved _Titanic_!"

"I do," Kurt amended. "But that song is _not_ going to win the judges' favor."

"Well, it doesn't matter anyways," Rachel sniffed, smoothing her skirt and reaching again for her cinnamon latte. "Mr. Schue gave the leads to Blaine and Santana, so I'm not singing any solos at all."

Santana's eyes rolled. "Berry, you're making my café con leche taste like sour grape," she drawled. Artie snorted.

"Besides, we all know you're going to that fancy school in New York," Puck added with a shrug.

Kurt's eyes widened at Rachel. "You got in?"

Rachel's face abruptly fell, and Finn couldn't tell if it was from fear or shame. Or both. "N-no, not yet," she stammered into her coffee cup. "I don't find out for another month or so."

"But your audition went well?" Kurt pressed.

"Yeah," Rachel said, her voice a little too high. "Yeah, it did."

"What'd you sing?"

Rachel's mouth pressed together for a moment, her eyes finally making contact with Kurt's. "I did _Not The Boy Next Door_." She gave a nervous shrug, sticking her nose back into her cup. "Ms. Tibideaux seemed to like it," she finished quietly.

To Rachel's apparent surprise, Kurt smiled. "Congratulations!"

"…Thanks," Rachel murmured.

Kurt sighed, leaning his cheek against his fist. "Okay, why are you acting like someone killed your puppy?"

Rachel swallowed, shrugging again. "I just… wanted to go to New York with you, Kurt," she admitted. "That was always the plan, and I feel bad you didn't get to audition."

The others all shifted uncomfortably in their seats, and Finn stayed quiet, unsure of how Kurt would respond. He'd known about this plan since the moment had entered Rachel's head (she wouldn't stop talking about it, even for a few weeks after Kurt had been expelled from school) and he knew that Kurt had wanted it too. But Kurt's calm reply caught all of them slightly off-guard.

"Rachel, NYADA would never have admitted someone like me," he said.

Finn knew that was true – he always had – and he suspected Kurt always had too, but this was the first time Kurt was acknowledging it. Even without all the chaos that had taken place since January, Kurt wouldn't have been able to handle the stress of a performance school.

"Then why'd you apply?" asked Puck, frowning in confusion.

The corners of Kurt's mouth twitched upward. "Because Rachel didn't want to do it alone."

Rachel froze for a second. Kurt calmly took a sip from his tea, and then Rachel pulled herself to her feet and promptly moved to sit beside him.

* * *

><p>The group slowly migrated across the parking lot to their cars almost an hour later, exchanging amiable goodbyes and making Kurt promise to hang out the next time he was home. Rachel was giving Kurt yet another hug (swearing it was the last one) when a voice yelled in their direction from the other side of the lot, making the group look up. Rick 'the Stick' Nelson had been heading towards the coffee shop, but now he'd changed directions and was walking toward them.<p>

_Dammit, _Finn thought. _Not now._

"Hey, Puckerman!" Rick called, and Finn didn't miss how Puck tensed. "Just getting out of a tea party with your little Glee friends?"

Puck rolled his eyes, stepping toward his truck as Rick approached.

Using a very poor imitation of a British accent, Rick lifted his pinky and mimed drinking from a small teacup. "How many sugars do you take, Mr. Noah? Would you like a crumpet?"

"I'm not in the mood to break your jaw, Stickhead, but if you really want, I can take you to the pavement," Puck replied evenly.

Rick laughed, crossing his arms. "I'd like to see you try, Nancy."

Santana interrupted then, stepping up to Puck's side. "Okay, you _really_ do not want to piss me off, Nelson," she threatened. "Either you walk away with your tail between your legs, or I crack one of your nuts and have Artie film it so we can show all your figure-skating buddies just how high your voice can go."

Rick laughed again. "I think I can handle a dyke just fine."

Santana's lip curled, her eyes narrowing, and Finn braced for her fist to collide with Rick's nose.

"How _dare_ you—" Rachel cried.

Santana was suddenly pushed back as Kurt stepped forward, his shoulders slightly hunched as he glared at Rick (Rachel gasped).

Rick grinned, immediately recognizing Kurt. "Hey, it's Hudson's crazy brother! Whatchya doing outside the asylum?" he asked. "Did you outgrow your straitjacket? Or did you chew through the walls of your padded cell?"

Finn's stomach curled as he saw Kurt's fists clench by his sides. Puck, Santana, Artie, and Rachel all seemed to be at a loss for what to do, and to be honest, Finn wasn't coming up with any ideas.

"Listen up, Mullet," Kurt snarled, his voice abruptly deepened and rough. Finn's eyes widened, his heart lurching to a stop. Rachel's hand was over her mouth, and Puck and Santana had both flinched back. "There are a _lot_ of people rattling around in this head and right now, they all want to beat your faggot ass."

Rick's smug grin had begun to fade, slowly being replaced with unease.

Finn was _stuck_. His muscles were rigid as his stomach flipped over and over. Something was very, very wrong – this wasn't _normal_, even for Kurt.

"Eleanor likes knives and knows exactly where your arteries are," Kurt continued, edging toward Rick. "Truman knows his way around a crowbar. Me, I just like a good old-fashioned fist fight, but believe me when I say you wouldn't walk out of that in one piece."

Rick gave a nervous chuckle. "The hell are you supposed to be now, Hummel? A biker dude? Freaking _schizo_," he spat, drawing himself up to his full height.

Every one of Finn's muscles tightened.

"Wrong diagnosis, dipshit," Kurt growled. "My name is Craig, and I'm going to snap you in two."

Kurt lunged, making Rick leap backwards, the bravado dropped. "Jesus!" he cried. "Put your brother on a leash, Hudson!" He strode quickly back toward the coffee shop.

Finn's heart was pounding in his ears as Kurt turned back around. All five of them were staring at Kurt in shock.

Kurt let out a huff, straightening up again. "Well, I doubt he'll be bothering any of you again for awhile," he said. His voice had returned to its regular pitch, and Finn suddenly felt like vomiting.

No one moved.

"You can all close your mouths now," said Kurt.

Puck was the first to speak. "What the _hell_ was that?!" he demanded.

Kurt frowned. "What? I just got rid of the biggest Neanderthal at McKinley, who just happened to be attacking you. No big deal," he snapped.

"I don't need you to fight my battles for me," Puck argued. "And not like _that!_"

Kurt crossed his arms, his jaw tensing. "You know, Puck, a little bit of gratitude wouldn't go amiss here."

"You want us to be _grateful_ for you scaring the crap out of us and acting like a douchebag?" Santana cut in, and Finn was having a difficult time not raising his voice to agree with her.

"I did it for _you_," Kurt insisted, but not even Artie and Rachel opened their mouths to support his case.

Santana stepped forward, and slapped Kurt soundly across the face.

Finn flinched (Rachel gasped again) as Kurt's head whipped to the side with the force of the blow. A hand to his face, Kurt glared at Santana, saying nothing.

"If you give a single crap about any of us," Santana spat, "you will _never_ do that again."

She turned on her toes and stormed back to her car, shoving her hands into her pockets and not looking back. Slowly and silently, Puck and Rachel walked to their cars, Artie rolling after Rachel and leaving Finn and Kurt alone in the parking lot.

Kurt rubbed his cheek, letting out a heavy exhale and glancing toward the coffee shop windows, where several of the Lima Bean patrons had turned to watch.

"Kurt, _why_ would you do that?" Finn asked, unable to keep his voice entirely steady. "You really want to call that much attention—"

"People are always staring," Kurt retorted harshly before Finn could finish. He swallowed, throwing his hands up. "Might as well give them something to look at!"

Finn blinked.

Kurt brushed by him, walking toward the truck. "Let's just go home."


	83. Two Of Them And Four Of I's

_Two Of Them And Four Of I's_

Katy Perry blasting in his ears as he worked on an essay for US History, Blaine almost didn't hear his phone ring on the desk beside him. Yanking the buds out of his ears, he quickly grabbed it and answered on the fourth ring.

"Hey, Rachel."

"_Blaine, you have to talk to Kurt._"

Blaine stopped short. He'd been expecting something along the lines of Rachel proposing an extra rehearsal before Nationals or requesting his help with a duet, or maybe even asking if he wanted to go see a movie and just _hang out_.

"What for?" he said.

"_I don't know what's going on, but Kurt's kind of… losing it_," she replied.

As if that was anything new.

"_He needs to talk to someone._"

Blaine swallowed, leaning back in his desk chair. "Did something happen?"

"_We went to the Lima Bean and Rick Nelson was there—_"

He let out an exasperated exhale. "Crap."

"_He started harassing Puck and then Kurt stepped in and he…_" Rachel trailed off, and Blaine couldn't tell if she didn't want to say what happened or if she just didn't know how.

"He switched?"

"_No,_" Rachel said. "_He pretended to._"

Blaine frowned. Why had his heart just skipped? "…What do you mean?"

"_I guess he was trying to scare Rick off or something,_" Rachel continued. "_I mean, it worked, but the others were pissed. Santana hit him._"

Blaine's eyes widened. "She _hit_ Kurt?"

"_Yeah, she slapped him. I… kind of wanted to do the same,_" she confessed.

Blaine sighed, running a hand down his face in exhaustion. He was sick of dealing with this. "Well, what do you want me to do?" he asked. "It's not like I'm his therapist."

"_No, but you know him better than most of us,_" Rachel insisted. "_Probably better than me._"

"Rachel, the last time I tried to talk to him, he switched and started screaming his head off," Blaine said, his heart skipping again from the memory.

"_He looks like he's more stable now, Blaine,_" Rachel pressed, her tone almost consoling. "_If he didn't switch when Santana hit him, I don't think he'd switch if you just talked to him._"

"He needs a doctor."

"_He has a doctor._"

Blaine's jaw clenched. It really wasn't that he didn't want to see Kurt – he did – and he didn't think he was afraid of Kurt switching. Maybe it was just that he was afraid of what Kurt would say if he wasn't in control. Because, as much as Blaine wanted to see the alters as separate people, he couldn't shake the feeling that Kurt hated him, whether or not Kurt knew he did.

"_Just think about it,_" Rachel pleaded from the other end of the line.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay," he said. "I will."

"_You'll talk to him?_"

"I'll think about it."

* * *

><p>Carole watched Finn's truck pull back into the driveway from the kitchen window and immediately knew something was wrong. She could see through the windshield that they were arguing, though it seemed that Finn was doing most of the yelling. Kurt finally spat something at Finn and climbed out of the cab, slamming the door behind him and marching up to the house. Carole's heart sank.<p>

The kitchen door closed behind Kurt only to have Finn push it open a second later, still fuming from their fight. Kurt wasn't looking at Finn, instead focusing on filling a glass of water from the tap. He was ignoring Carole too.

"Finn?" Carole asked. "What happened?"

"Why don't you ask Kurt?" Finn snapped.

"You're overreacting," Kurt said flatly over his shoulder.

"No, I'm not!"

Burt walked in, having heard the boys come home from his study upstairs. "What's going on?"

"_Nothing_," Kurt protested.

"Stop it, Kurt!" Finn demanded.

"I'm not _doing_ anything!"

"Both of you, calm down and explain what the hell's going on!" Burt ordered, his voice rising. Carole flinched slightly.

Kurt sighed in annoyance, placing the glass of water on the counter and then leaning back with his arms crossed. "We hung out at the Lima Bean and got into a fight with a Neanderthal from McKinley," he said calmly, albeit more than a little irritated. "I broke it up."

"By faking a switch!" Finn barged in.

Burt's eyes widened, his attention whipping back to Kurt. "You _what_?!"

"It's not a big deal!" Kurt swore.

"Yes, it is!"

"Finn, quiet down for a second, okay?" Burt cut in tightly. Carole drew a deep breath, trying not to let herself interrupt. Three voices were more than enough.

Finn huffed, but fell silent.

Burt turned back to his son. "Kurt, what happened?" he asked again, more gently this time.

"I told you," said Kurt. "There was a guy from McKinley who was bothering us. I made him stop."

"By pretending to be one of the alters?"

Kurt's mouth tightened. "Yes."

"What the hell made you do that?" Burt asked, his brows furrowing in distress. Carole thought he looked scared more than anything else.

Kurt narrowed his eyes, drawing himself up slightly. "Believe it or not, Dad, nothing 'made' me do anything. I'm not a puppet."

Carole swallowed, feeling the tug of the tension growing between Kurt and the rest of the people in the room. She coughed lightly. "Finn," she said softly. "Come on, let's let Burt and Kurt talk." She nodded pointedly toward the living room, and Finn reluctantly followed her.

* * *

><p>There was an uncomfortably strange static in the air at the playground as Eleanor watched the sky above, her arms crossed over her chest as the breeze swirled dead leaves around her feet. There were several dark clouds growing on the horizon, a low rumble of thunder reverberating through the atmosphere.<p>

"What do you think's happening up there?" Robbie said from beside her.

"Probably nothing big. We haven't been switching that much lately."

Robbie frowned. "How do you know? You're stuck down here, same as the rest of us."

"Shut up."

The air around them vibrated again with thunder.

"Why do you even care?" Robbie asked. "I thought you hated Kurt."

"I hate everyone."

* * *

><p>Carole and Finn sat in an awkwardly rigid silence in the living room, not quite able to hear the discussion taking place in the kitchen. Carole had tried to get Finn to explain what exactly had happened at the Lima Bean, but Finn seemed too angry to talk in detail.<p>

They both jumped as Burt's raised voice suddenly shouted from the kitchen, "It's not about you protecting your friends, Kurt! It's about us being able to trust you!"

Finn shifted in agitation, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees. He raked his fingers through his hair, making it stick up.

"If we can't trust you, we can't help you get better, and we're left with _nothing!_" Burt yelled. "You need to understand—"

Kurt's voice, harsh and bitter, abruptly cut in more loudly than Burt's. "I understand _plenty_, Dad! You have no idea what I go through every day just to keep myself together! And guess what! _I'm failing!_"

"Kurt, we just want to help—"

"_I KNOW!_" Kurt shouted, his voice hoarse. Carole flinched, her hand covering her mouth. "It's not about what you want! It's about _me!_ I am _always_ the focus of attention in this family, and I _HATE _it! We're always talking about me, about when I'm going to switch, when I'm going back to the hospital, what I need, building all your schedules around _babysitting _me! If I leave the house, Finn's got to come with me! If I'm home, I can't be alone! _I CAN'T BREATHE!_"

There was an uneven sob, and then silence.

Carole realized her fingers were clenched, her nails digging into her palms, and she quickly stretched them out, her knuckles cracking loudly.

"_Don't…_ touch me," they heard Kurt say. Burt must have reached out to pat his shoulder.

Another long silence, and then Burt sighed and spoke, almost too quietly for Carole and Finn to hear. "Kurt, you do not have a right to push us away," he said.

"_YES, I DO!_" Kurt screamed, his voice cracking. "IT'S MY BODY AND MY MIND AND NO MATTER HOW MANY PEOPLE I HAVE TO SHARE IT WITH, IT'S STILL_ MINE!_"

There was a loud scrape of a chair across the floor, and then Kurt stormed into the living room, heading for the stairwell. Carole stood up, quickly circling around the sofa to stop him. She wasn't entirely sure what she was trying to accomplish, but she knew that any time Kurt walked away in the middle of a fight, it took at least a week to resolve, and she wanted to prevent as much damage as she possibly could. "Wait, Kurt—" she said.

Kurt snarled and backhanded her.

Carole yelped as his hand caught the side of her head, and Finn bolted up from the sofa. In the blink of an eye, he'd seized Kurt's shoulders and pushed him back against the wall.

"You stay the hell away from my mother, Kurt!"

"_Finn!_" Carole cried.

Burt, having rushed in from the kitchen, grabbed the boys and wrenched them apart. "Stop it, both of you!"

Kurt's head lurched forward, and Burt suddenly cried out in pain as Kurt's teeth dug into his forearm. Carole gasped as Burt twisted his arm away from Kurt's mouth, all three of them stepping back as Kurt abruptly dropped to a crouch, his side hugging the wall.

Burt was breathing hard, rubbing the reddening tooth marks on his arm in a daze, as if he hadn't quite registered that his son had just bit him. Kurt was rigid, his eyes wide but staring at Burt's feet rather than his face, and his fingers gripping the wall. Carole was afraid to move, and Finn seemed too confused to do anything but stare.

"…Kurt?" Burt ventured breathlessly.

A noise somewhere between a growl and a groan came from between Kurt's teeth, making Carole's heart recoil. He was backing away from them, still crouched low. There was only a foot or two between him and the stairwell.

Swallowing, Burt leaned down, reaching hesitantly towards him. "Kurt…"

Kurt's eyes suddenly flicked up to meet Burt's, and it was enough to make Burt jump back. Kurt's lips pulled back and his teeth bared, the tendons in his neck tightening beneath the skin.

Then, Kurt let out a startlingly gruff barking sound that made Carole want to vomit, and turned and ran up the stairs. On all fours.

For several long seconds, Carole couldn't hear anything but her own heartbeat. Burt and Finn both looked as terrified as she felt, but Finn was the one to finally break the silence.

"Who the hell was that?"

Burt didn't respond, letting out a slow exhale.

"Burt?" Carole prompted, hoping that her husband had at least seen this before.

"I…" Burt stammered. "I don't know."


	84. Bucketful Of Babylon

_Bucketful of Babylon_

Two hours later, Burt untied the rope from around Kurt's door handle with his heart in his throat. The door swung open, and Burt frowned as he realized Kurt was nowhere to be seen. Swallowing, Burt walked into the room, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. "Kurt?" he called softly. He bent over and lifted the edge of Kurt's blankets to peer under the bed, and was almost relieved to see that Kurt wasn't there. He hadn't found Kurt under the bed in years, but he didn't know what to expect any more.

Burt noticed that Kurt's closet door was cracked slightly ajar, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled slightly. His fingertips going slightly cold, Burt pulled the door back, letting out a half-relieved, half-pained huff of breath. Kurt was lying almost curled on the floor inside the closet, on top of his extensive collection of shoes and with his neck bent at an odd and obviously uncomfortable angle (after all, the closet wasn't big).

Burt suddenly had to battle the urge to scream and drive his fist into the nearest wall.

"Kurt?" he said instead. "Kurt." He knelt and gently shook Kurt's shoulder. "Kiddo, wake up."

Kurt stirred, blinking in the light as he drew a sharp inhale.

"Come on, get out of there." Burt took Kurt's wrist and looped his own arm around Kurt's back, heaving Kurt onto his feet before Kurt was fully awake.

"Ow," said Kurt as his spine was twisted back into its original position. The vertebrae in his neck cracked loudly. "_Ow._"

"You okay?" Burt asked, drawing away. He didn't think Kurt was ready to have his personal space invaded yet.

Kurt shook out his arm with a wince, which had presumably cramped along with the rest of his body. "How long was I out?"

"Couple hours," Burt replied, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. "It's still Saturday."

Kurt sighed, glaring at the closet. "Hiding in closets," he remarked bitterly. "That's new."

Burt felt his heart stop momentarily. Kurt shouldn't have been this impassive.

"What do you remember?"

Kurt didn't look at him. "Yelling," he answered.

"We've been on the phone with Dr. McManus all afternoon."

"I figured."

Burt shifted slightly on his feet. He didn't know how to do this. How was he supposed to tell Kurt _sorry, kiddo, you and the rest of us have all got to deal with a brand new, maybe psychotic, maybe violent, definitely scary personality_? How would Kurt react? What would he do if Kurt _didn't _react, if he stayed maddeningly calm and didn't cry or yell or switch to someone else who could deal with all of this a little bit more easily?

What would he do if Kurt already knew?

"What?"

Burt's attention snapped back into the present. Kurt was looking at him expectantly, not understanding why Burt was still in his room. Burt's eyes fell on Kurt's notebook resting on top of the bureau, and he grasped at the straw.

"Kurt, what does 'red' mean?"

Kurt's features snapped into a frown – whatever he'd been expecting, that hadn't been it. "…It's a color," he replied slowly.

"You know what I mean."

"Uh, no, actually, I don't. What are you talking about?"

Burt swallowed. "You wrote it in your journal," he said.

Kurt blinked, not moving for a moment. "One of the alters must have written it." A shadow flitted over Kurt's face, making his expression almost unreadable. "You went through my journal?" he asked after a beat.

Burt ran a hand over his face, sinking onto the foot of Kurt's bed since he wasn't sure his bones could support his own weight for much longer. "Kurt, I'm at a total loss here," he confessed. "I don't know how to help you. You— You're having panic attacks in the middle of the night, you're angry all the time, you won't talk to anyone… I – I don't know what to do."

Kurt regarded him with a gaze that was far too steady. "I understand why you did it, Dad," he said, his voice sounding strangely like a coiled spring about to burst forward. "But maybe you should think twice the next time you decide to yell at me for betraying your trust."

An electric shock jolted between the walls of Burt's heart and stomach, and he couldn't understand why until it hit him several seconds later… Kurt was threatening him. Burt had been on the receiving end of countless threats from Eleanor and Craig and Truman and even, on occasion, Tyler and Zack, but Kurt had never spoken like that before.

"You're right," Burt said quietly. "You're right, but… we're not doing a good job here. We need to _talk_, Kurt." He was almost begging, and he was having a hard time keeping his spine from collapsing. "No matter how much you hate me, we need to be talking to each other if you're ever going to get better."

There was a long pause before Kurt spoke, his arms crossed over his chest.

"I don't hate you."

Burt involuntarily let out a breath that was close to becoming a laugh, because he didn't know what else to do. "That's… that's good to know."

Kurt's arms tightened around his chest. "So what did you want to talk about?"

"Kurt, you have a new alter."

It was out of Burt's mouth before he knew he'd said it, and the frown vanished from Kurt's face, his arms dropping to his sides.

"I'm so sorry, Kurt…"

"Who is he?"

Burt sucked in a gulp of air, bracing his hands on the edge of the bed. "I don't know."

"What was he acting like?"

"I…" Burt started, his heart beating against his eardrums. "I'm not sure. He didn't talk."

The frown reappeared, Kurt's eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "Is he like Schism?"

"No, he's—" Burt cut himself off, shook his head and rubbed a hand over his face. He _didn't know how to do this._ "Dr. McManus says it's animalistic."

"Anim…" Kurt breathed, unable to finish even the word. His mouth was hanging open slightly, the muscles contorting around his eyes. "What, like— like, growling, walking-on-all-fours…?" he asked, incredulous and terrified.

Burt didn't say anything.

"Oh my God." Kurt pulled his fingers through his hair, his chest caving in slightly as he backed up against the wall for support. His knees wobbled slightly before he sank to the floor.

"Kurt, you—" Burt started, scrabbling for something – _anything_ – he could say to fix this, even if it was just a little bit. "You're going to be okay, Kurt."

"How do you know?" Kurt's voice was soft, quiet and shaking.

Burt swallowed, his jaw clenching momentarily. "Because no one pushes the Hummels around."

* * *

><p>As the hands on the wall of Hiram's study rounded past midnight, Burt leaned back in his chair and rubbed exhaustedly at his eyes.<p>

"You all right?" Hiram asked, glancing up from the papers sprawled across the desk between them. They'd been going over their case for the trial for close to five hours now, and Burt's brain had felt like it was full of static for at least the last three.

"I'm just tired," Burt said, his voice so flat that it almost didn't sound like it was coming from his own mouth.

Hiram sat back as well, his eyebrows pulling together over his glasses. "Did something happen?"

"Kurt has a new alter," Burt replied. He didn't have the energy to try to keep it a secret.

"Oh, god," Hiram said. "I'm so sorry, Burt."

Burt shook his head. "I'll be better once the trial's over with and that asshole's rotting in a jail cell," he muttered.

"How's Kurt's treatment going?"

"Too slowly." Burt propped his elbow on the arm of his chair, resting his head in his hand. "Just feels like he's getting worse every day."

Hiram pulled his glasses off his face, dropping them onto the desk in front of him. "You know, Rachel stopped breathing when she was little," he said, and Burt blinked, thrown by the oddly placed statement. "I got up in the middle of the night to check on her – she was only seven months old – and she… she was just lying in her crib, not breathing, and I-I panicked. I mean, I _really _panicked." Hiram shifted in his chair, like just the act of remembering the story was uncomfortable. "Luckily, I had been working as a lifeguard a few years before and I had CPR training, so I got her breathing again before we took her to the hospital, but… I don't think Leroy and I slept again for two weeks."

Burt didn't say anything, not knowing how to respond.

"Anyways, what I'm trying to say is that I don't understand exactly what you're going through," Hiram continued. "But every parent on Earth knows that panic when your kid isn't okay. I can't imagine feeling it constantly, but you're not on your own there."

Burt nodded, though it was more than a little difficult to agree.

"You ever need anything, let me know," Hiram said. "I'm happy to help outside the courtroom."

"Thanks," Burt replied, wishing he could say he felt better when in reality he just felt heavier. "Let's just get the trial over with."

* * *

><p>Blaine parked his car on the curb in front of Kurt's house on Sunday morning with his heart knocking violently against the inside of his ribcage. He didn't know why he was really doing this, but he didn't think it was entirely because Rachel had pressured him to. Maybe he just really, really wanted to see Kurt.<p>

Steeling himself for the possibility that Kurt (or even Burt or Carole) wouldn't want him there and would turn him away at the door, Blaine climbed out of the car and started up the path to the house. He stopped short when he realized Kurt was sitting on the porch steps, almost like he'd been waiting for Blaine to show up.

"Kurt," he said. Apparently Kurt hadn't even seen Blaine arrive, because his head jerked up in surprise and he looked almost startled that Blaine was there. How much was Kurt out of it if he hadn't noticed Blaine's car pull up? "Hi."

"Hi."

Blaine's heart lurched. He hadn't seen Kurt in person since the pool party back in February, and the difference was unsettling. Kurt's face had hollowed out, the circles under his eyes darker than Blaine remembered, and every part of him just seemed… thinner. There was less of him there. Kurt was sitting on the step with his arms crossed and resting on his knees, leaning against the porch railing as if it was the only thing keeping him in place.

"You look terrible," Blaine blurted out, mentally smacking himself for opening a conversation like that.

Kurt let out a flat chuckle. "Don't I know it."

Blaine's mouth felt dry. He shifted on his feet, his mind blank.

"You can sit," Kurt said, gesturing to the step beside him.

Blaine sat a few inches away from him, detecting an almost palpable wall around Kurt. He wasn't sure if he was allowed to cross it. "How come you're sitting out here?"

Kurt closed his eyes, tilting his head up toward the sunlight. Somehow, the light made his skin look even paler. "They're taking me back to the hospital in a couple hours instead of waiting until tomorrow," he replied. "I figured I'd get as much fresh air as I could."

Blaine swallowed, studying him. "Kurt, are you going to be okay?"

"I don't know."

The statement was so simple and honest that it nearly made Blaine's brain stop functioning for a moment. "You know you can always call me, right? Whenever you want, I'll always pick up."

Kurt nodded, opening his eyes again to watch a hummingbird hover at the birdfeeder Carole had hung from the porch eave. He was silent for several seconds before asking, "Who sent you to talk to me?"

Blaine paused. "Rachel."

Kurt seemed unbothered by the admittance. "What did she say?"

"She just told me what happened at the Lima Bean and said you needed someone to talk to."

"I have plenty of people to talk to."

Blaine's jaw clamped shut.

Kurt sighed. "I'm sorry, Blaine, I didn't mean it like that. I'm just…" He trailed off for a second, his eyes unfocused and looking at nothing in particular. "I'm just tired."

"I can leave if you want," Blaine offered.

"No, it's… it's nice having you here."

"Really?" Blaine asked, genuinely surprised.

Kurt didn't speak for a long time. "I don't know what's happening to me," he said softly, almost to himself as he watched the street.

Blaine struggled to figure out what to say, but Kurt spoke again before he had the chance.

"I read your letter, by the way," he said, finally turning to look Blaine in the eye.

"Sorry it was so short." Blaine forced a sheepish smile, hoping Kurt would take the apology as self-deprecating humor.

"I really appreciated it, Blaine. Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Kurt shook his head. "I don't want to talk about me anymore; it's depressing," he said. "What have you been doing at school? Finn told me you guys won Regionals."

"Yeah, we did," Blaine answered, grateful for the change of topic. "We're really just getting ready for Nationals."

"Did the National Show Choir Board assign a really cheesy theme like they usually do?"

Blaine chuckled. "Yes, they did. The theme is 'truth'. Good luck interpreting that with a show circle," he remarked, relieved when it elicited a light laugh from Kurt.

"When's the competition?" Kurt asked, letting his cheek rest on his folded forearms. (Blaine didn't miss how it sort of looked like Kurt was too exhausted to hold his head up.)

"A week from today. We're heading to Chicago on Saturday."

"I wish I could be there."

"Yeah, me too." Blaine drew a long inhale and let it out equally slowly, willing his heart to stop beating so quickly. "Kurt, do you need or want me to do anything…?"

Kurt frowned slightly. "Like what?"

"I don't know. You just seem like there's something else bothering you besides the… the…"

"The split personalities," Kurt finished for him.

"Yeah, that."

Kurt let out a breath, staring at Carole's rosebushes for a few minutes before responding. "They caught him," he said finally. "The guy who made me split."

"Yeah, I heard."

"Well, the trial's on Tuesday."

"Are you going?"

Kurt shook his head resolutely, his expression hardening. "No," he said, his voice tight. "No, I – I can't be in the same room with him." He coughed, looking almost sick at the thought. "Even if I wanted to go, it wouldn't be a good idea. My dad will call me when it's over."

"Would it be okay with you if I went?"

Kurt blinked, his gaze whipping back to stare at Blaine in surprise. "You want…"

Blaine shrugged. "I'd like to be there for you, but only if you're all right with it."

"Y-yeah, I guess," he said, stammering slightly. "But, um… they'll probably talk about what – what happened, and—"

"Kurt," Blaine cut him off, reaching over to put a hand on Kurt's forearm. "It's okay."

"Okay." Kurt swiped the cuff of his sleeve over his eyes. "Blaine, I'm so sorry I never told you what was wrong," he said, his voice cracking near the end of his sentence. His eyes were threatening to spill over, but Blaine still didn't draw his hand away from Kurt's arm. "I just… I'm so used to people finding out, and then looking at me like I'm about to fall apart, and even if that's true I was terrified you'd look at me the same way."

Blaine swallowed, his fingers tightening around Kurt's arm.

"I was so relieved that you were mad at me," Kurt said, making Blaine blink in confusion. Kurt was crying now, but at least it was restoring a little color to his face. "Nobody else that found out was mad, and it was like they immediately thought I couldn't control anything, let alone myself. It's like… I'm a burning building, and even if they wanted to put out the fire they were still too scared to get close."

"Does that make me the fireman?" Blaine asked, cracking a tentative smile.

A laugh that was halfway to a sob wrenched out of Kurt's throat. "I don't know what you are."


	85. The Night That Melted Stone

_The Night That Melted Stone_

Three letters.

_R E D_

That was it. Just three letters, and Kurt had _no _idea what they meant. They glared up at him from the pages of his journal as he sat half-curled against the arm of the couch in the common room. He didn't recognize the handwriting, but if he looked at it carefully he supposed it could've been Eleanor or Zack. They were the only others who had contributed to the journal, after all, so they were the most likely candidates.

Kurt's fingers twitched as he fought a sudden urge to rip those three letters straight out of the notebook. He hated not knowing who was doing what and why – who'd written in his journal, who'd been throwing up his medication, and whoever the hell the new alter was, he hated having no clue what it looked like.

"Hey, Kurt," Charlie called, grabbing Kurt's attention from the nurse's station. "You've got an appointment with Dr. McManus in a couple minutes."

Kurt nodded, standing up from the couch and ducking into his room for a moment to toss his journal onto the bed before joining Charlie at the door.

"How was your weekend?" Charlie asked as he walked Kurt down the hall outside the ward.

"It was better than being stuck in here," Kurt replied dryly.

Charlie laughed. "I hear you." He opened the door to Dr. McManus' office and allowed Kurt to pass by. "See you later, man."

Dr. McManus was currently struggling to open the window behind his desk, and he glanced over his shoulder momentarily to greet Kurt with, "This hospital is insane when it comes to the thermostat."

Kurt pushed his sleeves up his arms, purposefully not glancing down at the scars now exposed on his forearms. "I noticed."

The window finally gave and cracked open, a cool May breeze blowing into the room. "Ah, better," McManus breathed. "I think the administrators are paranoid about letting the patients get too cold." He flapped a hand at the couch as he pulled his notepad out of his desk drawer. "Go ahead, sit down."

Kurt sat, folding one leg underneath himself.

"So, how was your weekend?" McManus started, taking his usual chair and setting his notepad on his knee.

"You mean besides the new alter?" Kurt remarked.

McManus smiled lightly. "Yes, besides that."

"You know, it was all right," Kurt said thoughtfully, looking at the tree outside the office window. "It was good."

McManus' head tilted to the side, almost in surprise. "What made it good?"

"I… I don't know." Kurt crossed his arms, watching the leaves in the tree swish in little waves from the breeze. "I mean, there was a lot of bad stuff that happened, but… I guess I just didn't feel trapped."

McManus' eyebrows shot up. "Well, that's an improvement."

"Yeah, it felt weird."

"How are you feeling about the new alter?"

Kurt tugged on a loose thread in the cuff of his sweatpants. "Terrified."

McManus nodded. "Well, you'd be an idiot if you weren't," he said simply. "Have you been writing in your journal?"

"Yeah, some."

"Have the alters been contributing?"

"A little," Kurt answered, _RED_ flashing across the back of his mind once again. "Zack's just been drawing the Chinese stuff again, and Eleanor hasn't written anything helpful."

"Anything else?"

Kurt chewed on the inside of his lip for a moment. "Yeah, actually," he said. "One of the alters wrote something kind of weird… Just the word 'red', but really big. Across two pages."

McManus frowned. "Interesting," he said. "No idea what it means?"

"No, not at all."

"Any clue who wrote it?"

"No."

"Hm." McManus tapped a finger against his chin, then set his notepad aside. "Kurt, are you willing to allow me to speak to the alters? Today, I mean."

Kurt swallowed. "Y-yeah, I guess."

"Considering that you have a new alter we know next to nothing about, it would be unwise to wait."

A spike of static energy shot up through Kurt's spine, making him fight off a shiver. "What exactly would you be looking for?"

"Mainly just figuring out what the new alter's deal is," McManus explained, propping his elbows on his knees. "It'll be easier for me to help you if I know what he looks like. And, I can also try to find out who was rejecting your meds."

"Do we need to go to solitary?" Kurt asked, his voice hoarser and softer than he'd intended. He coughed.

"Yes, we do."

"Okay." Kurt swallowed, his mouth dry. "Can Charlie be there?"

"Why Charlie?"

"I'd prefer him rather than the orderlies."

"I'll call him. You all right?"

Kurt shook his head. "I'm fine, I just… hate that room."

McManus nodded. "You and me both, Kurt."

* * *

><p>Charlie stood off to the side of the solitary room, staying close to the wall next to Leonard, one of the staff members from ward 3F. Charlie had assisted Dr. McManus before and he'd helped restrain plenty of patients, but never anyone with Kurt's particular illness, and if Charlie was honest with himself he was more than a little nervous about seeing it close up.<p>

It really wasn't Kurt's other personalities that Charlie was afraid of – he'd seen Kurt's alters plenty of times. It was the transition. He'd never actually seen Kurt's face change from one personality to another, and just the idea of witnessing it was intimidating.

Now, Dr. McManus was crouched on the floor in front of Kurt with a handheld tape recorder in his hand, speaking gently as Kurt sat with his back against the wall. "When did the new alter come out? Do you remember it?"

Kurt's face was contorted in thought, his eyes not really looking at anything in particular and his body tensed. "My… my dad and I were fighting," he said, his voice wavering as if he wasn't sure of the memory. "I remember sc-screaming at him, and I… I remember wanting to hit him."

"And after that?"

Kurt shook his head. "Nothing."

Charlie supposed it was flattering, if Kurt trusted him enough to ask specifically for him. He couldn't deny, though, that he'd rather be guiding the yoga session currently taking place in the 3F common room.

Kurt, on the other hand, looked so nauseous that Charlie wondered if he should have brought a bucket.

"Did you hit your father?" McManus asked, his voice calm.

Kurt swallowed, his fingernails picking at one another, emitting tiny _clicks_ almost like percussion. "I-I don't know. Maybe."

"Why were you angry? Was your dad wrong in being mad at you?"

"I was protecting my friends," Kurt said lowly, his fingers curling slightly. "I did the right thing."

"So he was wrong?"

A muscle twitched in Kurt's jaw. "He had no right to be mad at me. I did the right thing," he repeated.

Dr. McManus laced his hands together before changing the subject. "Kurt, you told me that what you remembered about Franklin was that he had rough hands," he said. "Right?"

Kurt shuddered almost imperceptibly. "Yes."

"I want you to concentrate on that memory, okay? Try to think of anything else you can remember."

Charlie felt the hairs at the back of his neck prickle as the pressure in the room began to change. He understood what Dr. McManus was doing; elevating Kurt's stress levels before bringing up the abuse, then driving a figurative hammer into an already widened crack to trigger a switch between personalities. Charlie wasn't sure that this method was entirely humane, but Kurt had agreed to it, and Charlie certainly wasn't coming up with any better ideas.

Kurt shuddered again, his eyes squeezing shut. "He… He was w-wearing a watch…" Kurt stammered, his voice shaking. "His hand was r-right by my head and – and – and it was nine-fourteen…" He trailed off, his breath hitching in his chest.

Charlie gulped, leaning back against the wall. Working in a mental hospital, one heard horrific stories of abuse every day. It didn't matter the reason for the damage. It never got easier listening to the patients talk.

"I'm listening," said McManus.

Kurt's eyes were still closed, his head hanging and his fists curled into the knees of his sweatpants. His toes were pulled tight, digging into the padding under his feet. He was quiet for a second, then drew a sharp hiss of breath, his shoulders spasming slightly.

"Kurt?" McManus prompted.

"It's nine-fourteen," Kurt echoed in a whisper. "He's—"

Charlie tensed as the set of Kurt's shoulders relaxed. This was it.

Kurt's eyes opened only a moment later, narrowing at his doctor with his mouth pulling down into a half-grimace. Charlie felt almost dizzy, realizing he'd just watched someone disappear.

"Who am I speaking with?" McManus asked, impossibly calm.

"You seriously don't recognize me?" Kurt snapped, his voice dry and rough. "We've only met a hundred times or so."

"Ah. Hello, Robbie."

"What do you want?"

"I was hoping you could tell me something about this new alter," McManus replied evenly.

Kurt rolled his eyes, his head falling back against the wall. "What new alter?" he deadpanned.

"I believe you know who I'm talking about."

"Nice try. I don't."

McManus pressed his mouth into a line for a second before speaking again. "Robbie, it would really be easier on everyone if you could just trust me for a few minutes."

Charlie flinched as Kurt's head snapped up, his eyes almost burning holes into Dr. McManus' face.

"Trust _you?_" he repeated. "Why the fuck would I trust you?"

McManus cocked his head to the side, remaining impassive. "Is there a reason you shouldn't?"

"You know exactly why," Kurt spat.

"Robbie, I really don't."

A harsh smile tugged slightly at the corners of Kurt's mouth. "Well, I don't know who the new guy is, so _fuck off_."

Charlie blinked. He'd seen Robbie plenty of times throughout the duration of Kurt's stay in the hospital, but he didn't think he'd ever seen Robbie angry. Annoyed, sure, and incredibly over-protective of his personal space, yes. But never _angry._

"Is it because I'm trying to help Kurt get better and you don't want to leave?"

"Fuck you. You think I give a shit if I'm here or not?"

"You want to die?"

"I never said that."

"Then why don't you trust me?" McManus pressed. "Or at least have faith in the fact that I'm trying to help you _and_ Kurt?"

Kurt didn't say anything, swallowing and scowling at the floor.

"Robbie, please talk to me."

"You don't have a right to ask me to do _anything_, asshole!" Kurt yelled, making Charlie frown in concern. Robbie had never yelled at anyone before, not that Charlie had seen.

"Why not?"

"_YOU DRUGGED US._"

Charlie's eyes widened. Kurt was breathing heavier than he'd been before, his fists clenched by his sides as he gritted his teeth.

McManus was silent for a few long seconds, waiting for Kurt's breathing to even out. "Robbie, those medications are a way to keep Kurt's mind grounded. They are not harmful."

A hoarse, thin laugh squeezed from Kurt's throat.

"Rejecting them is only going to make things worse for Kurt, Robbie."

Kurt's upper lip curled as he gave McManus a cold and strangely withdrawn glare. "Don't tell me what's going to make things worse," he said lowly. "You keep your fucking hands off us."

McManus actually looked startled for a brief moment before regaining his composure. "You really think I'd do something like Franklin did to you?"

"Franklin didn't do shit to me," Kurt rolled his eyes again. "I just keep Kurt from getting hurt again. That's it. So _fuck off_ and let me do my job!"

"We need to talk about this, Robbie."

"No, we _don't!_" Kurt snarled, his muscles tightening.

Charlie tensed, readying himself just in case McManus needed him to restrain Kurt. But he stayed where he was as Kurt stood up, his shoulders hunched forward and his fingers tugging through his hair. He circled around Dr. McManus, edging toward the opposite wall of the room, the air around him almost buzzing with static.

McManus stood up too in order to be level with Kurt. "Robbie, it's all right if you're afraid. These things take—"

Kurt spun around. "You think I'm _afraid_?" he scoffed, almost incredulous. "I'm not afraid of anything. I can handle myself, and I'll do whatever it takes."

"Whatever it takes to do what?"

"_Fuck off,_" Kurt growled.

"Tell me who the new alter is."

"No. Stay the fuck away from me."

"I won't do anything you don't want me to."

"I want you to _FUCK OFF!_" Kurt shouted, his head jerking forward. The rise in volume was so abrupt that both Charlie and Leonard jumped. Dr. McManus immediately backed up a step. "I want you to _stop _putting shit into our body! I want you to _stop _looking at us like you're picking us apart! I want you to _GET OUT OF OUR HEAD!_"

Kurt stood there for a moment catching his breath, and Dr. McManus didn't say a word. Charlie didn't think he'd ever seen the doctor so at a loss.

The surprise didn't last for long, though, as Kurt swayed on his feet, his shoulders slumping momentarily. He blinked, his head shaking slightly.

"Kurt?" McManus ventured.

"No," Kurt snapped. Charlie recognized the voice, though he'd only heard it a few times. "What's going on?"

"Eleanor, I need you to answer me honestly," McManus said, almost pleadingly.

Kurt crossed his arms, his expression hard and his eyes challenging.

"Do you know who the new alter is?"

The defensive, vaguely threatening glare faded from Kurt's face, and for a minute Charlie thought he looked almost terrified.

"Eleanor?" McManus prompted.

"I don't know who he is," Kurt said, his voice flat.

"Are you telling the truth?"

"What do you care?"

Charlie had no idea why, but Kurt sounded more _sad_ than anything else.

"I'm trying to help you."

Kurt's chin lifted, suspiciously studying his doctor. His arms remained crossed, like he was trying to pull into himself. "We don't need your help," he said, his voice cracking softly.

Dr. McManus sighed. "I know you feel helpless, Eleanor. I know you feel trapped," he said. "But you have a chance here to make things better, for all of you. All you need to do is be honest."

Kurt's face contorted, his fingers digging into his sleeves. His eyes were threatening to spill over.

"Can you do that?"

"He came from the woods," Kurt whispered.

Dr. McManus frowned. "What does that mean?"

Kurt shook his head, his hands covering his face as his shoulders fell back against the wall. His chest shuddered. Charlie thought he looked something like a cornered stray.

"Eleanor, what's preventing you from talking to me about this?"

Kurt sucked in a shaking breath through his teeth, the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes. His spine curled toward the floor.

Dr. McManus stepped forward again, reaching out to touch Kurt's shoulder. "I don't want you to feel like you're unsafe here," he said gently.

Charlie flinched as Kurt abruptly lashed out, his fists landing a panicked blow on Dr. McManus' chest and knocking the handheld recorder across the room. "_GET AWAY FROM ME!_" he screamed, his voice jumping high to Zack's too-familiar pitch.

Dr. McManus quickly moved out of Kurt's range, nodding pointedly to Charlie and Leonard. Charlie swallowed, but deftly avoided Kurt's fists and seized his right arm from behind. Leonard did the same on Kurt's left, and with a firm push they brought Kurt down to his knees.

Charlie could feel Kurt's pulse beneath his skin, beating as fast as a terrified rabbit's.

Kurt was sobbing now, his eyes squeezed shut as he pulled against Charlie and Leonard's hold. Dr. McManus knelt in front of him, close but not close enough to frighten him further.

"Zack," he said. "Zack, shh. It's okay. Franklin's not here."

The mention of the name made Kurt jerk back, curling inwards. Charlie had to grab Kurt's wrist to keep it away from his teeth.

"Can you open your eyes for me, Zack?" McManus requested. "It's okay. Breathe."

It took several seconds before Kurt was able to swallow, his chest heaving, and do as McManus said, blinking rapidly. His eyes were horribly bloodshot, the blue irises a disturbing contrast. The lashes were stuck together in clumps.

"What are you seeing, Zack?"

His eyes immediately shut again, his spine jolting. "R-red," he whimpered.

Dr. McManus' frown deepened, and he turned to Leonard. "Lenny, I need you to go to Kurt's room and get his journal. I don't know where it is exactly, but find it and bring it back."

Leonard nodded once and left Charlie to hold Kurt in place. It was harder to keep his grip now, especially as Kurt's struggles grew more frantic.

"One, two, three, four, five," Kurt mumbled through hysterical breaths, his bones trembling underneath Charlie's fingers. "Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream—"

The door opened again and Leonard rushed back in, clutching the notebook Charlie had seen Kurt carrying with him in the ward. Dr. McManus grabbed the journal and flipped through it as Leonard retook his grip on Kurt's left arm (Kurt whimpered and shied away).

McManus found the page he wanted, then held it up in front of Kurt. Charlie blinked. Kurt (or someone else) had scrawled _RED _in huge, scratchy letters over two entire pages.

"Zack, open your eyes," McManus said.

Kurt held his breath, his arm pulling against Charlie's hands as he tried to curl up.

"Come on, Zack, you can do it," Charlie urged quietly, giving Kurt's arm what he hoped was a comforting squeeze. "Come on."

Kurt let out a strained groan as he gritted his teeth and tried to inhale, his eyes cracking open slightly to look at his toes.

"Zack, look at me," McManus prodded gently, still holding the notebook up and open.

Finally, Kurt did as he was told. And then he stopped moving altogether.

Charlie's grip loosened slightly on Kurt's shoulder, but Kurt didn't try to pull away. He was staring with wide eyes at the notebook, at _RED_, his muscles gone rigid. Charlie didn't know if this was the reaction Dr. McManus had expected, but regardless it was probably the scariest thing Charlie had ever seen Kurt do.

"Zack?" McManus prompted.

The position of Kurt's shoulder blades shifted underneath his shirt and his head ducked forward, his neck stretching so that the vertebrae distended the skin below the base of his skull. A low groan rumbled from somewhere near the deepest recesses of his lungs.

"Kurt," Charlie tried, tugging slightly on Kurt's arm but immediately pulling back when Dr. McManus glanced at him and shook his head.

Kurt pulled his legs back under him, rolling onto the balls of his feet with his knees bent into a crouch. His lips pulled back as he bared his teeth at McManus, his jaw jutting forward. And he _growled_.

Charlie felt a shock jolt through his skin at the noise, and he nearly dropped his hold. By this point, Dr. McManus had shut the notebook and dropped it on the floor behind him, but whatever the notebook's contents had triggered wasn't about to stop.

Kurt's fingers flexed enough to make his knuckles crack, and Charlie could feel the tendons in Kurt's forearm rippling. He was still growling, low and unquestionably hostile.

"Who am I speaking to now?" Dr. McManus asked, evenly meeting Kurt's feral glare.

A gruff, guttural, wordless _noise_ burst out of Kurt's mouth, akin to something one would hear echoing off the stone walls of a 19th century asylum. In this room the echo was killed by the padding on the walls, and it somehow made the noise seem even louder.

"I… don't think he's going to talk," Charlie said, Kurt's tendons coiling and uncoiling under Charlie's hands. Kurt's voice had dropped back down to a growl.

Abruptly, Kurt twisted his arm out of Leonard's grip, catching the orderly off-guard, and in the same movement swiveled around to bite Charlie's fingers. "Ow!" Charlie yanked his hands back as Kurt's teeth caught the cuticles of his fingernails, the sharp spike of pain making him let go before thinking.

Kurt reached forward and hit Charlie hard in the chest, then snarled one last time and crawled to the corner of the room. He crouched again, balancing on his toes and the balls of his feet, letting his head rest between his arms as his fingers pulled lightly at his hair. He was rocking back and forth almost unnoticeably, but Charlie wasn't sure if it was because Kurt couldn't balance perfectly on his toes or if he was trying to calm himself down.

Dr. McManus released a heavy, frustrated exhale. "We're not going to get anything more from him." He stood and picked up Kurt's journal, then retrieved the tape recorder from where it had landed on the opposite side of the room. Leonard and Charlie both straightened up too, ready to leave.

"Charlie, can you stay with him for the next fifteen or twenty minutes?" Dr. McManus requested, checking his watch. "I know you have responsibilities, but Kurt trusts you and I want someone to be here with him, just in case he switches again soon. You don't have to do anything, just make sure he doesn't hurt himself too badly."

Charlie nodded, glancing over his shoulder for a second at Kurt's hunched back. "Sure," he said. He knew perfectly well what the drill was if Kurt _did _try to hurt himself beyond his habit of mildly biting his wrists. If Kurt went any further, Charlie would have to order a dose of Haldol and stick Kurt with the needle, a rushed procedure that was taxing on everyone involved.

_Last resort_, he reminded himself as Leonard exited and headed back to 3F.

Dr. McManus paused before returning to his office, his hand holding the door slightly ajar. "Call me if he does switch, even if it's not Kurt," he said.

"No problem," Charlie promised. "Hey, Ted?"

McManus stopped again. "Yeah?"

"What's 'red'? Am I allowed to ask that?"

McManus watched Kurt for a few seconds, appearing deep in thought. "I think it's probably the name of his new alter."

"'Red' is a _name_?" Charlie echoed.

"If I had to make an educated guess, yes. I'll see you later."

The door shut, and Charlie let out a breath, feeling heavy. He sank onto the floor as far away from Kurt as possible, resting his arms on his knees, and waited.

* * *

><p>Kurt woke up with his cheek pressed against the padded floor beneath him, his shoulders and calves stiff and his mouth dry. He blinked, blearily looking around the empty room as he pushed himself up on his arms, his joints cracking loudly in the silence.<p>

He couldn't remember what had happened after he'd come in here with Dr. McManus, but he felt exhausted and _sore_, as if he'd been electrocuted the day before. He sat back against the wall, scratching his arms where his teeth had marked reddish crescents in the skin. He raked his fingers through his hair, rubbing his eyes in a futile attempt to alleviate the pressure built up behind them.

His hands dropped onto his lap, and Kurt found himself staring at the long thin scars of knitted skin stretching from his wrists almost to his elbows.

It was a little strange, he thought, how much effort people were putting into keeping him afloat when all he ever did was pull them down with him. He was just an object that they were too afraid to let go.

A rock pressed against the walls of his throat as a wave of nausea washed over him. He felt _worthless._

He gritted his teeth, wrapping his arms around his torso and tucking his hands under his arms to hide the scars. He leaned forward and rested his forehead on his knees, just to put a constant pressure right where it felt like it was about to explode. He was too hot and too cold all at once and he wanted to crawl out of his skin and just _be_ someone else forever.

Kurt didn't know how much time had passed when the door opened and Charlie leaned in. "Kurt?" he said. "You back?"

Kurt coughed, trying to clear the boulder from his throat. "Yeah, it's me," he said.

Charlie came in and knelt in front of him. "How're you feeling?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you've been in here for the past five hours," he said. "It's about one o'clock now. I've been checking on you every twenty minutes or so. You feel ready to head back?"

Kurt swallowed, rubbing his shins anxiously like he was trying to warm them up. "I… think I might need to stay in here for a little while longer," he said unsteadily.

Charlie nodded in sympathy. "How about this – you come back to the ward and hang out in the Quiet Room instead?" he offered. "You can be by yourself and sleep if you want, have some time on your own, and then you can leave whenever you want instead of waiting for me to get you out. Unless you think you're going to hurt yourself, Kurt, in which case, solitary would be safer."

Kurt shook his head. "I'm not going to do anything."

"Well, I'm really glad to hear that," Charlie said, smiling as he stood up and reached down to help Kurt to his feet. "Come on, I'll take you back."

As Kurt followed Charlie back to the ward and through the common room, he avoided glancing at the other residents. His spine tingled and he couldn't escape the feeling that they were all watching him closely behind his back, that he'd done something to them to make them hate him.

Or maybe he just felt like an asshole because Dustin still wouldn't speak to him since they'd fought last week.

Charlie opened the door to the Quiet Room, allowing Kurt to step inside. "You need anything?"

"I'm fine."

"Okay, I'll see you later," Charlie said. "I hope you feel better soon." He shut the door.

The Quiet Room wasn't as bare as Kurt had thought it would be. The walls were painted the same orange as Kurt and Scott's room, and there was a single mattress on the floor with blankets and pillows. There was a shelf in the corner stocked with books and a few other things to occupy the mind that couldn't be physically harmful.

Ironically, the Quiet Room wasn't as quiet as it was in solitary. Kurt could still hear sounds from the common room – muffled voices, the clatter of the Connect Four tray as it was reset for another round. It was strangely comforting.

It wasn't enough to make Kurt feel immediately better, though, and he dropped himself onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. His skin felt too small, and he wanted to shed it like a crab.

His eyes tracing the patterns in the ceiling until they almost seemed to move, Kurt imagined crawling slowly out of his skin… Crawling until he could stand straight in a new coat, one that wasn't pallid from months of exhaustion or scarred by razors and cigarettes. A new skin strong enough to hold him inside.

* * *

><p>Most Mondays, Burt was in Washington before lunchtime, but not today. Since he and Carole had to be in Toledo tomorrow for the trial (Burt just wanted to get it over with, but he was still dreading meeting John Truman face-to-face), there was no point in being in DC for less than a day. He'd been on the phone all day attempting to do the same amount of work remotely, but working as a politician from home was far more tiring than acting as one in person.<p>

It was past six when Burt was finally able to hang up and sit down to dinner with Finn and Carole, but halfway through his lasagna the phone rang again. "Sorry," he said as he stood to go answer it, already preparing to rip Linus a new one for not giving him an hour to eat a meal with his family.

He snatched the phone off the shelf in the living room, catching it on the third ring. "Hello?"

"_Dad?_"

Burt stopped short. "Kurt, are you okay? What happened?"

"_I, uh…_" Kurt's voice was wavering, and Burt could hear that he was struggling not to cry. "_I had a bad day_."

"Okay," Burt said, sitting in his armchair with the receiver clutched tightly in his fingers, trying to keep Kurt where he was. Dinner could wait. "Tell me everything."

There was a sniff on the other end, and a heavy breath as Kurt tried to speak evenly. "_I'm just too tired, Dad,_" he said, his voice grating like broken glass. "_I want this to be over. I don't want to be sick anymore._"

Burt swallowed. Kurt sounded impossibly small. "Did something happen, Kurt?"

"_I don't know, I—_" Kurt's words were strained tight and thin, spoken through his teeth; Burt could hear it. "_I can't remember_."

"It's okay," Burt said, despite having no idea whether or not he'd just lied. "You're going to be okay."

"_I'm so s-sorry, Dad,_" Kurt sobbed.

"For what?"

"_I'm sorry you have me._"

A hot spike of panic stabbed through Burt's chest, and he shook his head. "Don't say that, Kurt," he argued. "Don't ever say that."

Kurt didn't respond, but Burt could hear him crying and trying to breathe, clutching the phone so tightly that it was making noise on the line.

"_Dad?_"

"I'm here."

There was a beat before Kurt could speak again. "…_I was r-raped._"

(And God, why did it sound like a confession?)

Burt felt his chest cave in, his heart and lungs collapsing under the weight of the rock in his throat. "I know, Kurt," he said.

There was a strangled sob, and then another, and Burt couldn't do anything but listen.

"_Please don't hang up_," Kurt pleaded.

"I won't," Burt promised. "I won't."


	86. No Man's Land

_No Man's Land_

Kurt was startled awake by a sudden shout from the other side of his room.

"_The curtains are on fire!_" Scott was screaming, swinging a blanket uselessly at the window (which had no curtains _or_ flames to be seen – it was still dark outside). "_THE DEVIL'S AWAKE!_"

Kurt scrambled back, pressing himself against the wall behind his bed as his pulse roared in his ears almost loud enough to drown out Scott's howling. Scott's eyes were wide and frenzied as he beat at the imaginary blaze with the blanket.

"_Call the army! The Devil's awake!_" Scott shrieked, making Kurt flinch. "_Call the Pope!_"

Kurt clamped his hands over his ears, pulling his knees up to his chest. Had he stopped to think, he might have thought the reaction was childish, but it had been little more than a reflex.

The door slammed open and three orderlies rushed in to grab Scott, almost dragging him toward the common room. Charlie was standing in the doorway with a solemn expression. "Take him to solitary and give him a light sedative," he ordered, and Scott's screams slowly faded out of the ward.

Kurt's hands fell into his lap.

"You okay, Kurt?" Charlie asked, coming into the room.

Kurt swallowed, shrugging one shoulder. "I don't know," he said shakily. He rubbed a palm over his face. "Aren't you here a little early?"

"Yeah, Dr. McManus asked me to cover today's morning shift since he wouldn't be here. It's just after five."

Kurt frowned, then his heart lurched as he remembered what today was. "Right, I… I forgot he was testifying."

Charlie watched him for a moment, making Kurt uneasy with his honest concern. Kurt thought Charlie's attention should probably be focused on Scott in that particular moment and the look on his face wasn't helping Kurt to relax.

"Kurt, are you all right?" Charlie asked, moving to sit on the edge of Kurt's bed.

Kurt frowned; he'd already answered that. "I'm fine."

(It probably would have been more convincing if he wasn't still curled and pressed against the wall.)

"I just…" Charlie started. "I know the trial's today, and if you need someone to talk to, I'm here for you. If I were in your shoes, I'd be freaking out, so I just want you to know that—"

"Thanks, Charlie," Kurt cut him off (a little too sharply). He avoided Charlie's gaze, but could still feel the nurse watching him and it made his stomach twist. "What?"

Charlie sighed, standing and moving back toward the door. "Why don't you sleep in this morning? I'll save a breakfast tray for you."

Kurt swallowed. "Okay," he said, and Charlie shut the door behind him, plunging the room back into darkness.

Kurt shivered slightly, not moving for a long time. Eventually, as the silence in the room began to ring loudly in his ears, he curled up on his side, pulling the blankets around his shoulders as tightly as he could, until they were almost choking. It was harder to breathe, but it made him feel just a little safer.

* * *

><p>The courthouse in Toledo was a massive, intimidating edifice of greyish-brown stone that towered overhead and made Blaine feel twice as small as he naturally was. It appeared to be a typical courthouse, if Blaine's experience with <em>Law &amp; Order <em>reruns was any foundation for an opinion, but he'd never been to one in person and looking up towards the huge Latin engraving across the front archway was enough to make Blaine's palms sweat.

Rachel's hands gently encircled Blaine's upper arm as she stepped up beside him. "Are you all right?" she asked. She was wearing her hair pinned up on the back of her head, a plain grey dress ribbed with black along the seams replacing her regular doll dresses and knee-high stockings.

"I'm fine," Blaine said, smoothing out his tie.

"It'll be okay," Rachel said, swallowing audibly.

"Are we going in, or what?" asked Puck from Blaine's other side. Puck (strangely enough) had requested to come to the trial as well, and although Blaine wasn't entirely sure _why_ Puck had wanted to attend, the Hudson-Hummels were apparently okay with it. The three of them had carpooled while Finn rode with his mom and Burt, and Rachel's dad had been in Toledo since five in the morning.

Steeling his nerves, Blaine began the climb up the smooth granite steps with Rachel and Puck alongside.

It took them almost ten minutes to find the right courtroom, spotting Finn, Burt, Carole, and Hiram standing just outside the open doors. Rachel immediately trotted up to give Finn a hug, and Carole managed a smile in Blaine's direction, but whatever conversation they might have had was cut short as the bailiff called for the doors to close.

Blaine slid into a bench three rows behind the desk where Hiram was seated on the right side of the courtroom, sitting squeezed between Puck and Rachel. Rachel was hugging Finn's side to Blaine's left, and beside Finn sat Carole and then Burt on the end. Blaine saw Burt check his watch, and then the doors banged loudly shut. His heart skipped.

No going back now.

* * *

><p>Burt felt sick. He wasn't sure if it was anxiety or food poisoning, but whatever it was felt like a snake working its way through his digestive tract, and he felt hot. He tugged nervously on his tie, twisting his wedding ring around his finger. Carole's hand reached over and wound through his fingers, squeezing slightly. She gave him a smile, but he could see she was just as unnerved.<p>

"You can do this," she whispered.

Carole suddenly tensed, her fingers tightening around Burt's hand, and Burt followed her gaze to where the bailiff was leading a man in handcuffs to the defendant's desk on the opposite side of the room. Burt felt his blood run cold, a stone-hard lump of abrupt _rage _settling into his gut and burning the pit of his stomach. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to not react outwardly.

John sat down at the desk, allowing the bailiff to remove his cuffs before he was joined by a tall, sharply dressed woman whom Burt recognized as Ruth Summers. Burt watched John closely, unable to look anywhere else.

Burt wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it was terrifying to see John in person simply because he looked _normal_.

Carole let out a small, sharp gasp and grabbed Burt's arm. "_Burt_," she hissed, her eyes wide.

"What—?" Burt started, trying to see what she was staring at, and then froze. The breath halted in his lungs.

Stretched along the side of John Truman's right forearm, branded into his skin as solidly as Kurt's cigarette burns, was a black tattoo of four horribly familiar Chinese symbols.

_MAN IS BEAST, _they screamed, stabbing into the back of Burt's head as cleanly as a knife.

A line of sweat formed along the back of Burt's neck. He was going to be sick. All that time, he'd thought Kurt had only been scribbling gibberish when instead he'd been pointing a finger right where Burt was supposed to be looking.

"All rise for the honorable Judge Joseph Ackerman," called the bailiff, and Carole seized Burt's arm and pulled him up alongside her and the rest of the courtroom. Burt could barely think as the judge took his seat atop the high bench, and it was only with a second prompt from Carole that he sat down again.

He couldn't hear anything above the dull hum of his blood in his ears. He could see the judge speaking, acknowledging the case, but whatever was being said was lost on him. The air was pulling itself out of Burt's lungs, and it _hurt._

* * *

><p>Rachel's fingers clenched together in her lap as she tried to keep her stomach from doing flips in her gut. She tucked her feet under the seat in order to stop her legs from jumping restlessly. (Blaine seemed to be having the same amount of trouble, so she reached over and squeezed his arm.)<p>

She sucked in a slow breath through her nose, allowing it to rest in her chest for several seconds before releasing it. It didn't really work.

"The case in question is the People versus John Franklin Truman," Judge Ackerman was saying loud enough for the entire courtroom to hear. "On twenty-seven accounts of child sexual abuse and rape, five accounts of domestic violence, and six accounts of manslaughter." The judge coughed, dropping the page he'd been reading from onto the bench and glaring down at John Truman from his high seat. "That's quite the rap sheet, Mr. Truman," he said. "How do you plead?"

John coughed slightly as he stood, his shoulders hunched ever so slightly, and said, "Not guilty by reason of insanity." He sat back down.

Rachel was suddenly having trouble unclenching her jaw. How was _everyone_ so damn _calm_?

"We will now hear the opening statement from the prosecution," the judge ordered.

Hiram stood up to take the floor, buttoning his suit and moving to the open space in front of the judge's bench. Rachel sat up a little straighter, her attention grabbed. She'd never seen her dad in action, and regardless of the circumstances it was exciting.

Hiram surprised the majority of the people in the room when he addressed the audience instead of the jury. "I'd like to request that anyone in this room who has been directly affected by John Truman's actions stand up, please," he said.

After a split second of silence, people began to rise to their feet, one by one. Burt, Carole, and Finn stood along with them. Rachel swallowed and remained seated beside Blaine, instead turning her head to count. There were nineteen standing in all – some older couples, a few younger or on their own. All of them bore the same worn shadow to their faces that had become a familiar sight in the Hudson-Hummel household.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. John Truman is a pedophile, a rapist, and an abuser," Hiram began, each accusation feeling like a knife slicing through Rachel's windpipe. She swallowed again, but the reflex only hurt a little more.

"Those currently standing make up only a small fraction of the people whose lives have been irreparably damaged by Mr. Truman's utter lack of human consideration." Hiram turned back to the audience again. "Thank you, you all may sit down."

There was a rustling as all nineteen of them retook their seats.

"There is no question as to whether or not Mr. Truman truly committed these crimes," Hiram continued, folding his hands neatly in front of him. Rachel knew that posture; her father only stood like that when he knew he had full control of his situation, and seeing it made Rachel feel a little less anxious. "More than twenty years' worth of victims can testify to that. It only takes a moment to destroy a child's innocence. Mr. Truman has caused far too many of those moments, and the only thing we can do now – the only _good _thing – is to bring him to justice."

He paused to let that sink in for the jury, though Rachel was somewhat sure the pause was just as much for dramatic effect (she had to get her flair from somewhere), then waved a dismissive gesture toward John's lawyer.

"Ms. Summers will have you believe that John Truman isn't at fault for his actions," Hiram stated bitterly, his lip barely curling. "But everything that John Truman has ever done has been a _choice_ that he and he alone made." Hiram jabbed a finger in John's direction.

Rachel glanced nervously at the defendant's desk. John's face (or, what Rachel could see of it from this angle) remained infuriatingly impassive.

"Choices have consequences," Hiram said. "It is our duty to see that we follow through for Mr. Truman on the consequences owed to him."

* * *

><p>"And <em>stretch<em>…" Charlie coached, bending to touch his toes while keeping his knees straight. A handful of the residents of 3F followed suit, scattered across the open floor in front of him. "Inhale… exhale…"

Charlie wasn't really a yoga type of guy outside of the hospital, but he did enjoy leading the tri-weekly session for the patients. For the most part, the men who took part in the activity were less likely to suffer breakdowns or lash out later in the day, which meant that Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays were easy days for him and the rest of the staff.

"And release," he said, straightening back up. He rolled his shoulders back to loosen them even further. "Great job, guys. Roll up your mats and give them to Leonard, please; he'll take them to storage."

As Leonard collected the yoga mats and the patients dispersed, Charlie spotted Kurt sitting on the couch with his notebook on his lap. He hadn't noticed Kurt emerge from his room.

"Hey, Kurt," Charlie greeted him as he wandered over. "I saved you a breakfast tray; you hungry?"

Kurt laughed through his nose. "For the watery crap you guys call food? No, thanks."

Charlie's heart skipped slightly, but he managed not to appear too shocked. "Sorry, I thought Kurt was here."

"He's not."

The smile that tugged subtly on the corners of Kurt's mouth made Charlie feel a little sick. "You know, Truman, you're welcome to join in the yoga sessions," he said. "Just because you're not Kurt, you don't have to be excluded."

"Thanks, I appreciate that," Kurt said, almost earnestly. Something about his tone made Charlie pretty sure Kurt was making fun of him. "But I just like to watch."

Charlie swallowed. He didn't like the sound of that. He cleared his throat. "Well, art therapy's in an hour if you want to join for that one. I'll see you later."

"Can't wait!" Kurt called after him.

Charlie suppressed a shudder.

* * *

><p>Ruth Summers was obviously a force to be reckoned with, and Finn disliked her immediately. She was nearly six feet tall, with red hair cropped at the shoulders, lipstick, and blindingly white teeth that gave her the appearance of a shark. Finn dug his fingers into his knees, fighting off the urge to punch her in the mouth as she addressed the jury.<p>

"My associate Mr. Berry is correct," she stated, clasping her hands coolly behind her back. Her voice was smooth and even and it made Finn grimace. "There is no doubt that John Truman committed these horrible crimes. But, while it is vital for the law to deal out consequences, it is just as important for the law to be understanding of the circumstances. Mr. Truman is a criminal, yes, but we must be open-minded as to _why _he turned to criminal acts."

Finn frowned, feeling like he had to throw up. He didn't _want _to know why.

"You don't have to be a medical professional to know that there are many different factors that contribute to the way a person's brain functions," Summers continued. "If enough of those factors are corrupted, then it's no surprise that a person will begin to display inappropriate or violent behavior. Is it still that person's fault?" She lifted her shoulders, almost in a shrug. "Maybe not entirely."

_Yes, it is!_ Finn screamed silently. He felt Rachel's hand wrap around his, forcing his fists to unclench.

"Deep breaths," Rachel whispered.

Finn did as he was told, inhaling and exhaling as slowly as he could.

"Maybe the fault lies with nobody in particular," Summers theorized, "and the instead the circumstances could be chalked up to rotten luck, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and a terrifying gap in the system that allows for cases like this to slip through unnoticed. Maybe the fault lies with us."

"I'm going to kill her," Finn hissed, too quiet for anyone but Rachel to hear.

Rachel gripped his hand tighter. "Just keep breathing."

* * *

><p>Dr. McManus was seated on the opposite side of the aisle from the Hudson-Hummels as he listened to the opening statements. His gaze continuously jumped between keeping a concerned eye on Kurt's family and studying the back of John Truman's head. As a doctor, he was rarely involved in the aspects of his patients' lives outside of their treatment. The only times he'd ever met his patients' former abusers (when abuse was an issue) were when they'd been traumatized by people close to them – family members, mostly. John Truman was an anomaly; Kurt had no connection to him other than the abuse itself, which made Kurt's mental health trickier to monitor and his wounds harder to close.<p>

His cell phone, which he'd left on as a precaution for his patients back at the hospital, vibrated silently in his pocket just as Ruth Summers was closing the defense's statement. Keeping the phone as hidden as he could, he discreetly glanced at the screen to see a text from Charlie.

_Truman's out._

Crap. He'd suspected the stress of just knowing the trial was taking place would push Truman to the surface, but he'd been keeping his fingers crossed.

_Is he giving you trouble?_ he texted back.

"The prosecution will call its first witness."

"The prosecution calls George Larsen," Hiram announced, and a man from three rows behind McManus stood and made his way to the front.

_Not yet,_ Charlie replied. _Should we put him in solitary just in case?_

McManus chewed on the insides of his cheeks for a moment, considering. _No,_ he typed. _If he starts harassing the other guys, put him in solitary, but let him be so long as he keeps to himself. And keep me posted._

_Will do._

McManus shoved his phone back into his pocket just as George Larsen was finishing his oath and taking his seat on the stand. Hiram stood in order to pose his first question.

"Mr. Larsen, when did you first meet the defendant?"

George shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "John was a substitute at the middle school I worked for fourteen years ago."

"So he was your co-worker?"

"Occasionally."

McManus felt a cold sickening feeling move through his gut. He hadn't known John Truman worked in education.

"For how long?"

"Off and on for about a year."

"Was he a good teacher?"

George shook his head, looking nauseous. "I never saw him teach, but from what I understood, the kids liked him. He taught mostly eighth graders."

"Did you ever think there might be a reason to question his abilities as a caretaker?" Hiram inquired, his hands in his pockets. "Even a temporary one?"

Another shake of the head. "I didn't work very closely with him, but no, I didn't."

"Were you friends with him?"

George swallowed. "I thought so, yeah."

"So, overall, John kept his abusive tendencies hidden."

"Yes."

Hiram nodded, pausing to take off his glasses. "Mr. Larsen, what happened in October of 1999?"

"My wife started to get pretty sick," George said, straightening his back. McManus thought it looked like George was getting ready to be hurt (which didn't make sense; he was the prosecution's witness). "We found out she had brain cancer, and she had to go into the hospital for awhile. She's all right now, but it was a scary time."

"And how did Mr. Truman affect that?"

George looked down for a moment, clearing his throat, and when his head rose again, his face was pinched and contorted. "M-My son, Jack… he was five," he started, his voice wavering for the first time. "He came to the hospital with me for the first couple weeks of Helen's treatment. You can't keep a kid that young in a hospital all the time, though. I had to get a babysitter, but money was tight and there weren't many people who were willing to work those hours." His mouth tightened. "John volunteered."

Hiram gave George a moment to compose himself, straightening his shoulders again. "How long did John babysit Jack for?" Hiram asked gently.

"A few days a week, for almost f-four months," George said through gritted teeth.

"And when it ended?" Hiram prompted. "What happened?"

George took a deep breath. "Jack was just kind of distant for a really long time. Then, a few years later, he started having some more serious behavioral problems. Hitting, getting into fights easily, overreacting to things…"

"Did you take him to a doctor?"

"Absolutely. They, uh…" George looked down again, swallowing with his palms braced on his knees. "His therapist eventually got him to say what had happened when John was – was there, and then the doctors found some sc-scarring…" He sucked in a shaking breath and forced it back out. "We called the police, but by then nobody we knew had any idea where John was. They never found him."

"How old was Jack at this point?"

"E-eleven."

"And how old was Jack when he passed away?"

George's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Fifteen." He swiped the heel of his hand over his eyes. "He – he killed himself."

McManus wished he could say he was surprised, but he'd seen too much since graduating medical school.

"Mr. Larsen, do you believe that Jack's death was caused by what John did to him?"

"Jack wasn't the same afterwards," George insisted. "I know a lot of it is m-my fault – I was worried about Helen and I wasn't paying attention – but Jack…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Jack wouldn't have done it if he hadn't been hurt."

"Thank you, Mr. Larsen," Hiram said. "No further questions." He sat back down.

McManus sat forward, his curiosity peaked as Summers took her place in the middle of the floor. He was apprehensive; she was intimidating and he'd heard things about Ruth Summers' legal strategies that made him worried for the Hummels' case.

"Mr. Larsen, I'm very sorry for your loss," she began solemnly.

"Thank you."

Summers squared her shoulders before her first inquiry, somehow growing a few inches taller. She knew exactly what she was doing, which only would make it harder for Hiram to win the case.

"When you accepted John's offer to take care of Jack, did you ask John for references?"

McManus frowned. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting Summers to ask, but that wasn't it.

"No, I didn't," George said, appearing equally confused.

"Why not?"

"I… didn't think it was necessary."

"And why was that?" Summers pressed.

George swallowed, and McManus felt a small jolt of anger; Summers didn't have any reason to be twisting the knife. "He – he was a teacher and the kids liked him," George repeated, stammering with a hint of desperation slipping into his voice. "He seemed responsible enough."

"So he was capable of being a good caretaker?" Summers asked.

George stopped short. "I… suppose."

"No further questions."

McManus gritted his teeth as he realized that Summers hadn't been trying to lay the blame on George. She was building her argument based on the idea that John could be reformed. If he'd done good in the past, he was capable of doing good in the future.

He hated to admit it, but McManus couldn't really argue with that notion.

* * *

><p>Carole couldn't seem to get her heart to slow down after George Larsen stepped down from the witness stand. Hearing him talk about his son had made Carole's palms sweat, her mind swarmed with images of finding Kurt lying in a frighteningly large pool of blood back in February, and the memory of him in the hospital bed, pale and hooked up to an IV, made her lungs burn. Breathing was suddenly a difficult task as she tried to concentrate.<p>

Hiram had stood again. "The defense calls Vincent Blake."

Carole exhaled slowly, her throat aching, and a younger man came up to take George Larsen's place on the stand.

"How old are you, Vincent?" Hiram asked.

"I'm twenty-seven."

_Nine years older than Kurt_, Carole thought, although she didn't know why she was comparing them. Maybe she was desperate to find someone else like Kurt, so he wouldn't be as alone as he was in a family where no one could see inside his head.

"And how did you meet the defendant?"

"He was my Little League coach when I was nine."

Carole suddenly had to fight off a wave of nausea, and by the way Burt's hand slightly clenched around hers, he was feeling much the same.

"Was he a good coach?"

Vincent hesitated. "It was almost twenty years ago; I don't really remember."

"What _do _you remember about your time with him?"

"He… started coaching me separately, since I wasn't that great at baseball. I ended up spending a lot of time at his apartment." Vincent paused to swallow, clasping his hands together. Carole could see from where she sat that his knuckles were white. "My mom, she – she was fine with it because it meant she didn't have to worry about me in the afternoons when she had to work, but…" He shook his head.

"How much of that time did you spend practicing baseball?"

Vincent's mouth clamped shut for a second. "I don't recall ever practicing baseball."

Hiram's eyebrows shot up. "Ever?"

"Not when we were at his apartment, no."

"If John lived in an apartment, was there even any space to play sports?"

Vincent scratched behind his ear, fidgeting in his seat. "There was a little yard behind the building, but it wasn't really big enough."

"So what were you doing, if you weren't practicing baseball?"

Vincent set his shoulders back, and the bottom of Carole's stomach went cold. His shirt collar has shifted with the movement, exposing for only a second an aged ring of knotted skin encircling his neck. Vincent had tried to hang himself.

"We, uh…" Vincent started, his voice cracking. He wiped his palms on his jeans.

"Can you give an example?" Hiram tried.

Vincent's gaze shifted to John, and Carole didn't know how, but in that single moment she heard exactly what Vincent wasn't saying aloud.

_I am bringing you down._

"Vincent?" Hiram prompted. Vincent's attention snapped back to center. "Do you need a moment?"

"N-no, sorry," he said quickly.

"What sort of things did you do with John?"

Carole saw a muscle twitch in Vincent's jaw. "I sucked him off, mostly," he said, his tone abruptly hard and solid.

(Despite having never met Vincent before, Carole couldn't help feeling a tiny burst of pride. He was fighting back.)

"He had you perform oral sex on him?"

Vincent nodded. "Yeah. Not always, but he seemed to like that best."

Carole could see even from this distance that his eyes were practically burning with determination.

"What else?" Hiram asked.

Vincent opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by a demand from Summers.

"Objection, Your Honor," she insisted, standing up to address Judge Ackerman. "I think we get the gist of Mr. Blake's experience; there's no reason to make him—"

"The purpose of this trial is to determine whether John Truman should go to jail for his crimes or if he will benefit from psychiatric treatment," Hiram cut her off as quickly as she'd interrupted Vincent. "It is absolutely crucial to hear the exact details of those crimes in order for the jury to make an informed decision." His eyes narrowed at her. "Or do you not want to hear what you're defending?"

Judge Ackerman sighed, nearly rolling his eyes. "Overruled," he said, and Summers sat back down. "Proceed, Counselor."

Hiram turned back to Vincent. "What else did John do with you, besides force you to perform oral sex?"

Vincent took a deep breath, some of the fire in his eyes already gone (Carole wondered why). "He would sometimes do the same to me," he continued. "Other times, he would use his hands…"

"Was there ever penetration?" Hiram inquired, and Carole was relieved to hear a gentleness in his tone to somewhat alleviate the otherwise harsh question. He was trying to make it easier.

"Not, um…" Vincent swallowed again. "He used his hands for that too."

Carole flinched, drawing an unsteady breath as she pulled her hand out of Burt's grasp for a moment to stretch out her cramped fingers.

"Did he ever leave bruises or cuts?" Hiram asked. "Any noticeable injuries?"

"No, never."

"So this man sexually abused you for an extensive period of time, but never enough to leave marks that others would notice," Hiram mused aloud. "That sounds like something a very smart, rational person would do, don't you think?"

Summers shot to her feet. "Objection!" she cried. "Counsel is leading the witness."

"Withdrawn," Hiram amended smoothly before the judge could say anything. "No further questions."

As Hiram went to sit back at his table, he shot a discreet wink in Carole and Burt's direction, and Carole had to suppress a grim smile. The question had never been searching for an answer; he'd only planted the idea in the jury's heads.

_Nice work, _Carole thought as Summers moved to take Hiram's place.

"Mr. Blake, generally speaking, how did John treat you during your time together?"

Vincent blinked. "Excuse me?"

"How did he treat you?"

"…I was _nine _and he spent the majority of his time having sex with me," Vincent spat.

"Besides that."

Carole felt a hot spike of rage shoot through her chest. Who the hell did this woman think she was?

"What do you mean, 'besides that'?"

"You said 'the majority of his time'," Summers pressed, and Carole wanted to march up and punch the woman in the stomach. "What did he spent his time doing when he wasn't molesting you?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Please answer the question, Mr. Blake."

"I – I think I remember playing board games and watching TV…"

"Did he feed you?"

"I…think so, yeah."

Summers nodded in understanding. Carole felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. "It sounds to me like he wanted you to like him, whatever twisted logic he was employing. Do you agree with that?"

"Objection!" Hiram nearly shouted, lurching to his feet. "Your Honor, do I even have to explain why that question was ten levels of inappropriate?"

"No explanation necessary, Counselor, but I'll allow it," Judge Ackerman said. He sounded bored.

That made two people Carole wanted to punch. (Not John Truman, though. She'd do _much_ worse things to him.)

"Your Honor—!" Hiram started to protest, but the judge cut him off again.

"You said yourself that the purpose of this trial is to decide whether the defendant is sent to jail or to a psychiatric facility," Ackerman drawled. "And I agree with you – the jury can only make an informed decision if they hear the exact details. After all, it's the defendant's mindset at the time of his crimes that will determine whether or not those crimes are worth an attempt at redemption. Please answer the question, Mr. Blake."

Hiram sat down with a huff of breath that Carole could hear from three rows back.

"Mr. Blake?" Summers prompted. "Do you think it's possible John Truman was attempting to be kind despite the sexual abuse you suffered?"

Vincent's mouth was clamped tight, his face hard.

_Say no,_ Carole pleaded silently. _Say no. For God's sake, say no._

"I don't know," he said.

"No further questions."

* * *

><p>Kurt blinked, staggering and barely catching himself with an arm braced against the wall. (He was really getting good at not falling when he transitioned mid-step.) He rubbed a hand over his face, leaning against the tiled wall as he tried to think and solidify his bearings in the fluorescent light from above the mirror. He was in his bathroom, and it felt like it might be close to mid-day, but he couldn't be entirely sure.<p>

He straightened up, tugging his fingers through his hair as he glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He was going to need a haircut soon; it was starting to look lopsided and unhealthy. Then again, he just looked unhealthy in general, so maybe it worked.

He tugged anxiously on the hem of his t-shirt; he didn't remember getting dressed that morning.

Swallowing the sick feeling rising in his throat, he turned away from the mirror and backed out of the bathroom, flopping onto his bed. He wasn't tired, but he didn't want to go out into the common room just yet. Stretching his neck until it cracked loudly, he pulled on the tight muscles in his upper back (the tendons were coiled taut from months of stress buildup; he was in dire need of a massage) to try and alleviate the soreness beneath his shoulder blades.

(It didn't really work.)

Heaving a sigh, Kurt twisted around on the bed to grab his journal from where it sat on the bedside table. He might as well be somewhat productive and write some more. He flipped through the pages until he found the last one used and nearly turned it over without looking at it, but a new set of handwriting made him stop.

And then his heart seized in his chest, and he couldn't breathe.

_I'm going to make you burn_

_—T_

* * *

><p>"The prosecution calls Burt Hummel."<p>

Carole squeezed Burt's hand as he stood up, making his way to the witness stand with his heart thudding violently in his chest. The bailiff held up a Bible.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

"Yes." _I'll say whatever I need to if it puts that bastard in jail._

The bailiff returned to his post at the side of the court, allowing room for Hiram to approach the stand.

"Mr. Hummel, you were the one who contacted the police with the information necessary to track down the defendant," Hiram stated, keeping his tone professional and aloof. "How exactly did you come by that information?"

"My son said what his name was, and I found an address book in my ex-wife's belongings with his name and phone number," Burt explained. "The police did the rest."

"How old is your son?"

"He's eighteen."

"Where is he now?"

Burt swallowed. "He's in a psychiatric hospital at the moment."

"Why is that?"

Burt's gaze jumped nervously to the audience, finding Carole. He hadn't anticipated this; the panic creeping up his spine at having to talk about Kurt and his demons so openly in front of so many people. Carole gave him a nod of encouragement.

"He's got split personalities."

"How long has that been going on?"

"He was diagnosed when he was eleven, but he's had behavioral issues for a lot longer." Burt wanted to reach up and loosen his tie, but he didn't want the jury to think his testimony was shaded by anxiety.

"I understand that Kurt was left in John Truman's care for a short period of time when he was a child," Hiram prompted.

Burt nearly choked. "Yes."

"How long?"

"Almost two weeks."

"What prompted you to leave your son for that length of time?"

Burt was grateful that Hiram had asked that particular question; he'd known it would eventually come up, but if Summers had asked him Burt would have snapped. Coming from Hiram, it didn't sound accusatory.

"My wife at the time, Linda, and I decided to go on a second honeymoon," he said, feeling guilt and bile work their way up his throat. "Kurt's grandma was supposed to take care of him, but she came down with the flu the day before we were supposed to leave. We weren't going to ask anyone to take him that last-minute, but Linda ran into John in downtown Lima that afternoon and he offered to do it."

Hiram's eyebrows rose. "You left your son with a stranger?"

Burt's heart skipped as he realized what it sounded like. "No!" he amended quickly. "No, no, Linda knew him. She went to college with John and they were already friends. He just happened to be in the area."

"Ah, okay," Hiram nodded, sending a discreet wink in Burt's direction. He'd recovered from the slip-up. "So, these split personalities that your son has… how many are there?"

Burt paused, glancing at Carole again. "If you include Kurt, there's nine of them."

"Nine separate identities in one person," Hiram said. "That must be difficult to deal with. What sort of behaviors does Kurt exhibit when these other personalities take over?"

Burt scratched his temple nervously. "It – it depends on the alter," he said, stammering slightly. It felt so _wrong_ to be talking about this where everyone could hear. "He can be aggressive or violent sometimes. Not always, but there's a lot of hitting when the alters get angry. He also…" Burt gulped, his mouth dry. "He tried to stab my stepson once."

There were mixed looks of shock among the spectators sitting in the benches, a couple of hushed whispers. Burt saw Rachel and Blaine both turn towards Finn with wide eyes (Puck looked like he'd already known).

"And why do these personality switches occur?"

"Because John Truman did stuff to him that he's still scared of," Burt forced out.

"Sexual stuff or physical stuff?" Hiram prodded.

"Both," Burt spat. "We still don't know everything. Kurt doesn't remember a lot of it; the alters do and they can be hard to talk to. But he's been able to tell us enough."

* * *

><p>It took Kurt exactly thirteen seconds to leave his room, cross the common room floor, and disappear down the short corridor where the outgoing phone was mounted on the wall.<p>

_Not today, not today, PLEASE not today,_ was the mantra spinning round and round inside his head. _Not today, Truman._

(Truman gave no response that he could hear.)

His hands shaking, Kurt grabbed the receiver and punched in the number of Burt's cell phone. It rang once, slowly, taking its time as Kurt's fingers rapidly tapped against the wall, then rang again.

_Not today, not today…_

_Please, Dad, pick up pick up pick up pick up pick UP PLEASE_

_DAD_

It rang a third time, and then a fourth.

"_Hi—_"

"Dad—"

"_—you've reached Burt Hummel; I can't come to the phone right—_"

Kurt's fist punched the wall of its own accord. He slammed the phone back onto its hook once before yanking it back up and dialing the number again.

_Dad PLEASE_

"_Hi, you've reached—_"

_Not today_

Another slam.

"Kurt?"

Kurt jumped, nearly falling back onto the wall. Charlie had followed him and was watching him with a look halfway between worry and apprehension.

"You okay?"

"My – my dad's not…" Kurt shook his head. He felt dizzy. "He's not answering his phone."

"What's the matter?" Charlie asked, stepping closer.

Kurt couldn't breathe. The air hitched underneath his breastbone, and he was forced to lean against the wall and bend over in a desperate attempt to get more blood to his brain. The heels of his hands dug into his eyes as he struggled to inhale.

Suddenly, Charlie's hands were on his shoulders, guiding him to a sitting position on the floor. "Kurt, what's going on? Tell me what's happening."

"I don't want to switch," Kurt whispered, sucking in a gulp of air through gritted teeth as his hands gripped his head, as if the hold would keep himself together. "I don't want to switch."

"You don't have to," Charlie said, still holding on to Kurt's shoulders. "You can fight it, Kurt, I know you can. Just breathe. You can do this."

_Not today not today not today not today_

"Breathe."

"I – can't—"

"Kurt, your body's not going to let you suffocate, okay? You have to trust it," Charlie coached. "Let yourself breathe, come on."

Kurt's skull lurched back to hit the wall, hard, and Charlie quickly reached up with one hand to cradle the back of Kurt's head.

"Don't – don't do that, Kurt," he said. "You don't have to do that."

(Kurt didn't know if he'd done it on purpose or not.)

"Come on, you can do this," Charlie pushed. "Just take it slow."

_Not today not today_

_I am NOT going to burn today._

* * *

><p>Burt took a deep breath as Summers approached him, feeling a little like he was being stalked by a predator. Her expression seemed deceptively calm, as if she was patiently waiting for the perfect moment to spring a trap. Burt clenched his jaw.<p>

"Mr. Hummel, what's your opinion of John Truman?"

Burt blinked. That… was unexpected. "My opinion?" he echoed.

"Yes," Summers nodded. "Based on what you know of Mr. Truman, what is your opinion of him in general? You can be completely honest."

Burt narrowed his eyes at her, _MAN IS BEAST _flashing through the back of his mind. He didn't know where this was headed, but he didn't like it.

"Ms. Summers, the man raped my son," he snapped. "I'd like him to burn in Hell, and I think he's a crappy excuse for a human being."

"Thank you," Summers said with a professional smile. "Could I ask your opinion of your son, Kurt?"

Again, unexpected. "…I'm sorry?"

"Objection, Your Honor," Hiram interrupted from his table. "Counsel is leading the witness."

"Overruled. Answer the Counselor, Mr. Hummel."

Burt hesitated, glancing at Hiram. Hiram's jaw was tight; he clearly understood where Summers was taking this, but there was nothing he could do to help Burt on the stand.

"Would you like me to repeat the question?" Summers pressed.

"I love my son," Burt responded, his voice hard. "I value his life and his health over anything else."

Summers nodded, turning to the jury to briefly state, "As would be expected of any good father."

Burt wanted nothing more to reach across the floor and wrap his hands around Ruth Summers' neck, but instead he kept his palms pressed flat against his knees.

She returned her attention to the witness stand. "Has Kurt ever behaved in a way that you would describe as… monstrous?"

"Your Honor, objection!" Hiram cried, almost sounding exasperated.

"Sustained," Judge Ackerman drawled. "Please phrase your questions respectfully, Counselor."

"My apologies," Summers said smoothly. Burt's fingers twitched as he repressed the urge to break her nose with his knuckles. "Has Kurt ever behaved in a way you would describe as unusually inappropriate or violent?"

"No."

Summers' thin eyebrows disappeared beneath her neatly trimmed bangs. "Really?" she asked. "Just a few minutes ago you stated that Kurt's hit you and your family members more than once, and in one instance he attempted to stab your stepson."

"That wasn't Kurt," Burt insisted, his teeth grinding. "It was the alters."

"All right, I'll rephrase again. Do any of Kurt's alternate personalities ever behave violently?"

"Some of them, yes," Burt bit out.

"How so?"

Burt tried not to appear too frustrated. He'd already been over this during Hiram's examination. "Hitting, biting, scratching, yelling…" he listed off.

"As well as the aforementioned stabbing attempt?"

"…Yes."

"Any inappropriate sexual behavior?"

Burt flinched in his chair, and Hiram leapt to his feet.

"Objection!"

"On what grounds?" Judge Ackerman sighed, sounding annoyed.

"Kurt Hummel is not the one on trial here, nor is his father!" Hiram argued.

The judge turned his stern glare to Summers. "You'd better get to your point very soon, Counselor."

Summers nodded, then raised her eyebrows expectantly at Burt.

"Mr. Hummel, please respond," said Ackerman.

Burt let out a long breath. "Yes."

"Yes what?"

He swallowed, his palms feeling cold. "One of Kurt's alters… molested my stepson."

Again, Burt saw Blaine and Rachel's shocked faces immediately turn to look at Finn. Carole reached over to hold Finn's hand, but Finn was tense, keeping his gaze ahead. (And again, Puck looked like he'd already known. Finn must have told him more than Burt had thought.)

Summers paused, unaware of the exchange taking place in the benches behind her. "Mr. Hummel," she said, bringing Burt's attention back into focus. "You've made it clear that you love your son dearly, despite the fact that he's done horrible things to you and your family." Her head tilted slightly to the side. "Why is that?"

"It's not his fault," Burt protested, his voice split between furious and desperate. "He's my _son_."

"So, what you're saying is that you find all of Kurt's abhorrent behavior forgivable because it's not something he can control?"

"Yes."

"And what if I told you that John Truman isn't in control of his actions either?"

It suddenly hit him like a freight train. Too late; Summers had closed her trap. Burt felt his throat contract as he realized she was _comparing_ Kurt to that— that— He couldn't even finish that sentence.

Involuntarily, Burt's gaze jumped to meet John's from across the court. John was watching him with absolutely no sign of remorse or anger or fear or, hell, even _amusement_. He was as unperturbed as someone mindlessly watching television commercials, and it made Burt want to scream. The _least_ John Truman could have done after everything he'd caused would be to be a little bit afraid of what was coming for him.

"I wouldn't believe you," Burt growled, tearing his eyes away. He could still feel John watching him.

"Mr. Hummel, you're obviously very familiar with Dissociative Identity Disorder," Summers continued. "I'm wondering if you're at all familiar with an equally upsetting disease known as Reactive Attachment Disorder?"

Burt frowned; the name was unfamiliar. "No."

"How about Antisocial Personality Disorder?"

"No." He shook his head, again confused by the direction Summers was pushing the conversation.

"Then you must also not be aware that John Truman meets many of the psychological criteria for the diagnosis of both disorders?"

Burt blinked. "…No, I wasn't."

The tight, aloof smile reappeared on Summers' face. "No further questions."

* * *

><p>It took several minutes before Kurt was calm enough to breathe in and out with almost no trouble. His chest still felt tight and it hurt to inhale too deeply, and his fingertips were tingling a little from the lack of oxygen, but he could feel his heart slowing to a steadier pace and the wall against his back felt more solid now.<p>

"Feeling better?" Charlie asked. He was sitting on his heels in front of Kurt, having stayed there for the duration of Kurt's panic attack.

Kurt exhaled slowly, nodding with closed eyes. He felt drained.

Charlie shifted to sit with his legs crossed. "What happened, Kurt? You can talk to me."

Kurt's throat hurt, and he pulled his legs up to rest his forehead on his knees. "Truman told me he's going to kill me," he confessed, too tired to fight with Charlie.

"Ah." Charlie was silent for a few seconds. "And… do you think he can?"

"He did once already."

"But you came back," Charlie countered. "Sounds like he just knocked you out; he didn't kill you."

"I was gone for two and a half months, Charlie."

Charlie huffed. "Look, Kurt, I'm not an expert with this stuff, okay? I've never met anyone else with this problem, but I know the alters – Truman included – aren't real people," he said. "They're part of you."

"That makes me feel so much better," Kurt deadpanned.

"Hey," Charlie lightly slapped Kurt's shin with the back of his hand, making Kurt raise his head. "I'm not joking here. It _should _make you feel better. If they really were separate people, Kurt, you would _never_ be able to get rid of them. But because they're just you, you can fight them."

Kurt swallowed around the rock in his throat, staring at his toes.

"Like I said, I'm not an expert," Charlie continued. "But if you ask me? Truman threatening you just means that you're still scared that what that guy did to you is going to kill you after all."

"This really isn't helping, Charlie," Kurt exhaled, closing his eyes again. He didn't have the energy for this.

"Kurt, it's not stress that makes you switch," Charlie said. "It's _fear_."

"Stress is fear."

"No, it's not. Fear is fear."

Kurt sighed, resting his head in his hand. He didn't want to be debating this stuff with Charlie right now. "So, what, just don't be afraid? That's your advice?"

Charlie shook his head. "No, of course not. That'd be stupid. But… maybe you should stop believing there's a way to avoid being scared."

Kurt frowned in confusion.

"Everyone gets scared, Kurt; you can't avoid that. Fear never becomes more or less important depending on why it's happening. The only thing you can do is face it head-on." Charlie smiled slightly. "Make _it _afraid of _you_."

* * *

><p>By the time Burt sat back down and Dr. McManus was called up to the witness stand, Blaine's palms were marked over and over again with small crescents from his fingernails and his jaw was sore from clenching. After everything Ruth Summers had said during her cross-examination of Burt, Blaine desperately needed a visit with the punching bag in the McKinley weight room.<p>

"Dude, calm down," Puck whispered out the corner of his mouth.

Blaine resorted to clamping his teeth onto the insides of his cheeks and drawing a long breath through his nose.

"Dr. McManus, could you please summarize your qualifications for the jury?" Hiram requested.

"I have a medical degree and a degree in psychiatry from Johns Hopkins, as well as a PhD in psychology from U.C. Berkley and twenty-five years' experience treating patients suffering from abnormal psychological diseases," McManus rattled off.

"Are you good at what you do?"

McManus gave a reserved smile. "I'm very good."

"How long have you been treating Kurt Hummel?"

"He was admitted to Appalachian Behavioral Healthcare on the nineteenth of February this year, and I began treating him the next day."

Blaine tucked his legs underneath the bench, sitting forward. This is what he wanted to hear (well, maybe not _wanted_; just… had to).

Hiram nodded in understanding, his hands resting in his pockets. "Okay, so it's been a few months," he said. "And, as it's been established, Kurt is suffering from split personalities. Have you been able to determine exactly what made Kurt's mind fragment into so many pieces?"

McManus laced his fingers together in his lap. "It's caused by a combination of a lot of different factors," he explained. "Kurt was raped multiple times at the age of four, which caused the initial split, and then at the age of eight he was in a violent car crash resulting in the exacerbation of his mental rift, as well as the death of his mother."

Blaine wanted to throw up.

"It's also possible that the problem was made worse by the extensive bullying Kurt dealt with throughout his years at school," McManus added (to Blaine's right, Puck abruptly coughed). "Being constantly threatened isn't healthy under any circumstance, but in Kurt's case it would have been extremely dangerous to his mental equilibrium, which is… fragile, to put it lightly."

"But the rape is the main reason for his disease?"

"Yes."

Blaine's heart was having a difficult time maintaining a steady beat.

Hiram paused to take off his glasses. "Even with the car accident and his mother's death and the bullying, is it plausible that Kurt could have developed DID if John Truman hadn't raped him?"

_God, please stop saying 'raped'…_ Blaine pleaded silently, his mouth parched and dry.

"It would be extremely unlikely," McManus shook his head. "Only the accident could have been traumatizing enough to cause a split, and even then it would've been virtually impossible for Kurt to develop as many personalities as he has, especially at such a young age."

"What has Kurt been able to tell you about his experiences with John Truman?"

McManus leaned back in his chair, letting out a heavy breath. "Well, to be honest, 'traumatizing' is probably an understatement," he said, and Blaine felt a jolt of electricity crackle through his brain. "Kurt's memories of his time with John Truman are difficult to access, but he's been able to recall both sexual and physical abuse, including force-feeding, physical neglect, and being force to perform and receive oral sex."

Blaine's sinuses felt tight, like he was submerged underwater. His hands were shaking in his lap, the nails digging into his palms.

"There are gaps in Kurt's memory, however, so it's impossible to say if that's all that took place."

"I understand you brought evidence of Kurt's abuse with you today," Hiram prompted, and McManus nodded, reaching into his inner coat pocket.

"Yes, this is an audio recording of a session I had with Kurt about a week ago," he said, withdrawing what looked like a handheld tape recorder. "What you'll hear on this is actually Kurt's youngest alter, Zack."

Blaine's heart screeched to a stop. No. He didn't want to hear this. His shoulders and spine all the way down into his legs went rigid, feeling cold. He couldn't do this.

McManus set the recorder on the banister separating him from the rest of the floor and pressed Play. The volume had been turned all the way up, and at first it was McManus' voice coming from the speaker.

"_Zack, can you tell me where you are now?_"

The question was met only with the soft sound of crying. Blaine drew a sharp intake of breath, holding it in his lungs as he willed his heart to slow down.

"_It's okay,_" McManus' voice soothed. "_Where are you?_"

"_In my bed._"

The air rushed from Blaine's chest, his ribs feeling like they were about to collapse. Kurt's voice – and it _was _Kurt's – sounded so small and scared and _terrifyingly _young.

"_What are you doing?_" asked McManus.

"_Nothing._"

"_Why?_"

There was a whimper. "_I tried. He hurt me._"

Blaine's eyes squeezed shut of their own volition, as if the action could somehow block this out. He felt dizzy and nauseous and he wanted to clamp his hands over his ears like a child.

He was startled when another hand suddenly squeezed his fingers, and he opened his eyes again to see that Puck had reached over to grab his hand.

"No homo, dude," Puck whispered under his breath.

Blaine was having a hard time believing that Puck, of all people, felt the need to hold someone's hand, but he didn't question it and he left his hand where it was.

"_Is he with you now?_" McManus' voice asked.

Another whimper, louder this time.

"_What is he doing to you?_"

"_I don't know,_" Kurt whined.

"_Where are his hands?_"

"_Everywhere._"

"_Do you want him to stop?_"

Kurt sniffed. "_I'm scared._"

Puck's fingers tightened around Blaine's. Blaine wasn't entirely sure if he was squeezing back.

"_Does it hurt?_"

This time there was a broken sob. "_Yes._"

* * *

><p>"The prosecution calls Natalie Truman."<p>

McManus blinked in surprise at the name, sitting up a little straighter as a thin blonde woman stood from the back of the room and walked shakily up to the witness stand to be sworn in. He studied her as closely as he could from this distance; she wasn't very tall and was almost unhealthily skinny, and judging by the way her fingers constantly twisted around each other, McManus thought she was probably suffering from some kind of anxiety disorder.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out to see another text from Charlie.

_Truman's gone. Kurt had a minor panic attack, but he calmed down. He's in the Quiet Room now._

_Okay, good, _he replied. _Let me know if anything else happens._

"Miss Truman, how do you know the defendant?" Hiram asked.

"He's my older brother."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"When he graduated from Ohio State, in 1995."

"Seventeen years is a long time," Hiram said. "Why haven't you kept in touch?"

"I didn't want to."

McManus could almost hear her fingernails clicking from where he sat as she picked at them nervously.

"You didn't talk to your brother for seventeen years and now you're testifying against him," Hiram said. "What exactly did he do to make you react this way?"

Natalie's arms hugged her stomach, one hand agitatedly rubbing her upper arm like a nervous tic. "When I was f-fourteen," she started, her voice wavering, "John a-attacked me."

_Oh, Jesus,_ McManus thought. That explained the possible anxiety disorder.

"Attacked you how?" Hiram pressed gently.

Natalie's face contorted, her head dipping for a moment so she could swallow. "He… he r-raped me."

Hiram waited for her to straighten up again, recomposed, before asking another question. "What was your childhood like with John?"

"What – what do you mean?"

"Was he nice to you as a kid? Mean? Protective?" Hiram clarified.

Natalie shook her head. "No, he… he didn't really pay much attention to me. After our dad died, he just kind of stayed on his own most of the time."

"Did you ever suspect that he might have a problem, mentally speaking?"

Natalie nodded. McManus could see her shoulders trembling. "Always. He was always a little bit… off, I guess. Ever since I could remember."

"Was he ever violent?"

"To our mom, yes." Natalie's voice cracked, and she coughed to clear her throat. "I remember he would… he would hit her a lot, especially when he got bigger than her. That didn't stop until he left for college."

"No further questions; thank you."

McManus felt a little bit sick. He knew all too well what growing up in an environment like that could do to a person; it was no wonder that Natalie gave such an obvious appearance of being damaged. However, it was uncommon to find a home so toxic that the child eventually turned and began to abuse the parent. Fighting back was one thing. This was another.

"Miss Truman," Summers addressed her. "What was your father like?"

Natalie flinched. "Uh, he… he wasn't a good guy."

"Could you elaborate?"

"He was an alcoholic, a-and he used the belt a lot…" Natalie's fingernails clicked against each other. "He was really… really rough. We weren't allowed to call him Dad; we had to call him Frank."

"Did he target you a lot?"

Natalie tugged on a strand of hair, trying to get it to stay tucked behind her ear. "S-sometimes. He saved most of it for John, though."

"What did he do to John?"

Natalie chewed on her lips, glancing in the direction of the defendant's table. "I – I don't know." She drew a shuddering breath. "I was really young, but I… I remember hearing—" Her voice cut off and she hid her face in her hands for a second, wiping away the sudden onset of tears.

"Take your time," said Summers.

Natalie's face had turned splotchy and her chin was quivering. "I remember he-hearing John sc-screaming upstairs," she forced out, her words choppy with sobs. "Sometimes f-f-for hours."

"That must have been terrifying," Summers sympathized, sounding genuinely sorry for the first time that day. "Did that happen often?"

Natalie seemed to stop breathing for a few seconds as she tried to keep herself from breaking down completely. "Ye-yes," she choked out. "It happened a l-lot."

"One final question, Miss Truman," Summers promised.

Natalie sniffed, blotting her face with her sleeve.

"Do you love your brother?"

Natalie didn't say anything for a long moment, her eyes glassy. She pressed her lips together, turning to look at John. Considering the history she'd just described, McManus might have expected her to be scared or angry, but instead Natalie just looked _sad_.

"Yes."

"Thank you," Summers said. "No further questions."

Natalie quickly stepped down from the stand, walking back up the aisle with her head ducked. McManus couldn't blame her when she strode right past where she'd been sitting and instead pulled the door open, disappearing from the courtroom entirely.

* * *

><p>Kurt lay half-curled on the bed in the Quiet Room, his arms tucked against his chest as he willed his mind to stop thinking (it wasn't working very well). As the thoughts darting through his brain warred with each other to be heard, Kurt tried to concentrate on the air moving steadily in and out of his lungs, on the feeling of the firm mattress underneath him, and the pulse in his ears. His skin felt a little cold, but he didn't move to grab a blanket; it almost felt nice.<p>

He stretched out his arm, flexing his fingers since they had fallen asleep, pulled to his chest so tightly that the blood flow had been restricted. His fingertips tingling as the feeling was restored, he found himself tiredly studying the scar stretching along the inside of his forearm.

Strangely, this was the first time he'd really looked at it without feeling like he was about to suffocate.

Still breathing slowly and evenly, he uncurled his other arm, running the fingers of his left hand along the scar. It was longer than the one on his left arm, a little jagged and slanted. It had been a sloppy cut, and he knew why – he'd cut his left wrist first, with his dominant right hand, and then struggled to use the damaged tendons in his left hand to cut the right wrist. He couldn't remember much after that.

With an almost alarmingly calm curiosity, Kurt's fingers explored the scar, feeling the bumps of knotted skin where it had been sewn back together, the tiny white flecks lining either side of the cut where the stitching thread had been pulled through to keep the wound closed. The scar rippled slightly every time he moved his fingers, looking something like a ribbon in a light breeze.

His fingers moved up to where his wrist met the heel of his hand, and stopped there when he felt the stable drumming of the blood in the veins underneath the skin. If he looked closely enough he could actually see the skin surely pulsing.

He let his hand rest where it was, feeling his own heartbeat, and before long he'd finally drifted off to sleep.

* * *

><p>Due to the fact that the prosecution's witnesses had all testified, Judge Ackerman had called for a short adjournment before the trial moved on to the defense's case. Finn was grateful for the break, filing out of the courtroom behind Burt and Carole. He could feel Rachel watching him closely, but he didn't want to acknowledge her just yet. Instead, he left Burt and Carole talking to Dr. McManus and went in search of a bathroom before Rachel could pull him aside.<p>

He found the men's room down the hall, and, feeling slightly dizzy, braced his arms against the sink counter. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, then turned on the faucet and splashed a small amount of water on his face. He sucked in a deep breath, holding it in his lungs for as long as he could. It felt like there wasn't enough blood in his brain.

He didn't want to go back out there. He didn't want to sit in the courtroom and listen to any more sob stories about what took place behind closed doors.

He didn't want any more of this.

Finn sighed, feeling tired and knowing that as soon as he left, Rachel would try to talk to him. He should have told her not to come; he should have known that she'd find out what Truman did to him. He was stupid, and he felt disgusting.

Pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, he dried his face with his sleeves and, refusing to look at his reflection in the mirror, returned to the corridor.

As expected, Rachel was waiting for him outside, and Finn flinched, fighting the urge to vomit.

"Hey," she said. "You okay?"

He hesitated, scratching his forehead with his thumbnail and avoiding her worried gaze. "…Not really, no," he confessed.

Rachel nodded solemnly, and he braced for a cheesy pep talk or a plea for him to open up and talk about his feelings.

Instead, though, she only reached forward to lightly grasp his hand, giving it a comforting squeeze before walking with him back to the courtroom.

* * *

><p>Hiram was practically livid, rage burning the roof of his stomach as he strode down the corridor. He spotted Summers just exiting the women's bathroom and leaning over the adjacent water fountain to drink, and, not <em>really <em>thinking it through, Hiram stormed up to her.

"Ruth!"

Summers straightened up as he approached, immediately crossing her arms. "Hiram, you know I'm not allowed to speak to you outside the courtroom," she said evenly.

"I don't want to talk about the case," Hiram dismissed. "I want to know what the hell you were thinking that made you _volunteer_ to defend a guy like John Truman."

Summers held up a hand to stop him, her eyes narrowed. "I'm going to stop you there, Hiram, and I want you to listen closely," she said, her voice as cold and hard as the stone walls around them. "This is America. Everyone is entitled to a defense lawyer, and my client is no exception."

Hiram opened his mouth to protest, but she wasn't finished.

"Now, before you go and accuse me of doing something so horrible as _my job_," she continued, "you should know that I understand one of the victims is friends with your daughter, so I'm beginning to wonder if I should inform the judge that you're a little too personally involved with the case."

Hiram's jaw clenched; he knew perfectly well that if she followed through, he'd be quickly replaced with someone else.

"Hiram, what you're doing is admirable," she said. "But this is not a black-and-white, open-and-shut case. You see, from _my_ perspective, all I'm trying to do is get a _very_ sick man some help." She reached down and retrieved her briefcase from where she'd set it on the floor, then brushed by him as she headed down the hall. "I'll see you back in the courtroom."

Hiram wanted nothing more than to punch the nearest wall.

* * *

><p>Blaine sat on a bench outside the courtroom, leaning over and staring at his reflection on the polished floor, his elbows propped on his knees. He felt lightheaded and dehydrated, but he didn't want to get up to go find a water fountain. Puck had sat with him for a minute or two before going in search of a place to get a cup of coffee (he'd asked Blaine three times if he was alright on his own, but Blaine had waved him off).<p>

Blaine let his head rest in his hands, praying for the dizziness to subside.

"You okay, Anderson?"

Blaine jumped, sitting upright again to see Burt standing in front of him, his brow knitted in concern.

"You're looking a little green," he said.

"I just, uh…" Blaine stammered, rubbing a hand over his face. "No, I'm fine. I'll be fine."

Burt's eyebrows rose slightly. "Blaine?" he said.

"Yeah?"

"Don't lie to me."

A rock pressed against the walls of Blaine's throat, and he nodded, looking down at his hands for a moment. "How – how do you do it?" he asked. "How do you deal with – with all this?"

Burt let out a heavy exhale, sitting down beside Blaine. "You pretend," he answered. "You've got to divorce yourself from this idea that it's really Kurt acting the way he does when he's not in control."

Blaine frowned in confusion. "Isn't it, though?"

"Oh, no, it is him," Burt agreed. "But you have to make yourself believe that the alters really are separate people, that they're _not_ him. It'll kill you if you don't."

Blaine leaded his head back against the wall behind him. "This is so over my head," he said quietly.

"Blaine, I want you to know that I appreciate you coming." Burt reached over to give Blaine's shoulder a solid clap. "It's good to know you're here for Kurt, even if he's not here himself. Not many of Kurt's friends would do that."

Blaine nodded, coughing lightly. "I'm more surprised that Puck came, honestly," he said, trying to shift the focus away from himself.

"Oh, I asked him to."

Blaine blinked, caught completely off-guard. "What?"

"Well, he did want to come, but I let him on the condition that he'd keep an eye on you."

"On… on me?"

Burt shrugged. "Rachel was going to be focused on Finn, and I didn't want you on your own."

Blaine realized with a jolt that Puck grabbing his hand hadn't been an act of searching for support; instead, he'd been providing it.

He opened his mouth to respond (he didn't know _how_), but was cut off by the bailiff stepping out of the courtroom to announce that the adjournment was over. The people milling about the hall began to move back through the doors. Burt clapped Blaine's shoulder a second time before rejoining Carole.

Blaine took a deep breath as he filed into the courtroom with the others, sliding back into his seat on the bench. It was a minute or two before Puck sat down again next to him, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow.

"You feeling better, man?"

Blaine nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks."

"Good."

* * *

><p>"The defense calls Dr. Milton Bay to the stand."<p>

Puck twisted in his seat to watch as a white-haired man stood up from the other side of the court and walked up to the witness stand to be sworn in. He didn't know why they needed another doctor to testify, and this one looked like more of a stiff than McManus. Puck didn't like him.

"Dr. Bay, could you list your qualifications?" Summers asked, lacing her fingers together behind her back.

Bay sat back in his chair, clearly comfortable where he was as he draped one leg over the other. "I have a PhD in criminal psychology from Stanford, and I've worked as a criminal and forensic psychologist for almost thirty years."

"I understand you've worked in tandem with the FBI many times to catch several serial killers, rapists, murderers, and other felons with similar histories."

"That's correct."

Puck's eyebrows shot up. This guy might've looked like a stiff, but he sounded like a badass. He was on the same side as the guy who'd attacked Kurt, though, so Puck still hated him.

"Did you examine John Truman yourself?"

"Yes, I did."

"And what conclusions did you reach?"

"I found that John's upbringing severely damaged his concept of what is socially acceptable in the field of human interaction, as well as virtually destroying his understanding of right or wrong."

Puck didn't understand the majority of what the doctor had just said, but he got the feeling that they were throwing some kind of pity party.

"As was previously discussed during Natalie Truman's testimony, John's primary abuser was his father, Frank," Summers stated. "Was John open with you about what exactly his father did to him as a child?"

"He wasn't entirely open, no, but I did glean some details from our talk. I believe that the abuse consisted mainly of the brutal beatings John received, but there was also some sexual abuse involved, as well as periods of time where for several days John would be kept locked in a room with no food or other necessities as punishment."

There was no question that Puck hated John Truman and would kick him in the crotch if he was given the chance, but he had a hard time suppressing a shudder. He'd dealt with a few beatings from his own dad as a kid, and so had his mom, but Bill Puckerman was just an asshole; he wasn't a freaking _psychopath_.

"In your professional opinion, Dr. Bay, do you believe that this abuse is the only reason John has exhibited such criminal behavior?" Summers inquired.

Bay cleared his throat. "It's probably not the only contributing factor, if you really want to take the time to debate nature versus nurture, but I don't believe for a second that John would have hurt anyone if he'd been raised in a healthy environment," he explained, shaking his head. "Besides the crimes he's committed, which are admittedly terrible, he's also displayed several examples of socially constructive and good-hearted behavior."

_Yeah, bull,_ Puck snapped in his head.

"Like what?" asked Summers.

"For instance, I spoke to some of his former employers, and every one of them stated that he was an excellent teacher. Their opinions of him didn't change until I told them why I was asking."

"Anything else?"

Bay scratched his temple. "According to John, he would attract his father's attention on purpose, specifically to protect his younger sister."

"If John was attempting to protect her, then he must have comprehended that the abuse was detrimental," Summers countered. "Why would he have adopted his father's behavior later on if he understood how damaging it was?"

This was starting to make Puck feel sick, and it was a conscious effort now to _not_ think about his own family or how he'd thrown things at his dad just so that Bill would come after him and not Sarah. The tendons in his neck were rigid.

Bay clasped his hands in his lap. "There have been many studies to determine a cause for that, and what most of this research has found is that in men who display the exact type of behavior John is accused of, there is a noticeable lack of development in the prefrontal cortex."

Great, now the doctor was starting to speak gibberish.

"The prefrontal cortex is the part of the human brain that allows us to control our impulses, differentiate between right and wrong, and among other things, predict the outcomes of our actions," Bay continued. "This part of the brain's most crucial period of growth takes place around adolescence, and the majority of violent criminals report suffering alarming levels of abuse during their childhood. MRIs and brain scans have found that these men have prefrontal cortexes that are generally underdeveloped. They have fewer cells due to the environment in which they grew up, and it's enough to affect their behavior for the worse. The abuse quite literally creates a damaged brain."

Puck swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He wasn't entirely sure he understood what the doctor was saying, but it was enough to scare him. Problems with impulse control, caring whether something was good or bad, dealing with consequences… Puck had always had problems with this kind of stuff.

Did… did he have brain damage?

"The other felons who took part in these studies… how many of them entered into therapy to change their criminal tendencies?"

"All of them."

"And how many continued their lives without a relapse?"

"The numbers are very low, but not low enough to be rare. These habits are very difficult to change."

"Dr. Bay, is John Truman a pedophile?"

"No, he isn't."

…Wait, _what?_

There was a collective pause across the entire courtroom then, accented by a couple of scattered whispers of confusion.

"A pedophile is defined as someone who derives gratification specifically from sexual contact with the pre-pubescent body of a child," Bay went on. "For John Truman, as far as I could tell from my conversations with him, it has nothing to do with the age of his sexual partners, but rather the control he has over them."

Puck was going to vomit the second he was able to walk out of the courtroom.

"Could you elaborate on that?"

"He achieves sexual gratification from physically dominating another person," Bay restated. "It's not about the connection with someone else, as it is with most pedophiles. John spent the majority of his childhood having absolutely zero control over himself or his surroundings, and now the sensation of actually being in control is ingrained as a release in more ways than one. Children just happen to be easier to overpower."

"Thank you; no further questions."

Hiram stood up as Summers returned to her seat. "Dr. Bay, I have just one question," he said. "If John Truman achieves sexual gratification from dominating another person, doesn't that include adults?"

"Sure."

"So there's a good chance that he has more victims than the twenty-seven children we already know he attacked."

"It's possible, yes."

Hiram nodded. "Thank you."

Puck was _definitely_ going to vomit.

* * *

><p>Burt shifted nervously in his seat beside Carole as Dr. Bay returned to the audience. Carole squeezed Burt's hand, her thumb soothingly stroking his wrist.<p>

"The defense calls John Truman."

For about three seconds, Burt's heart stopped. The air was tight in his throat as John stood and walked up to the stand, _MAN IS BEAST _flashing into Burt's vision again for half a moment.

This was it.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

"Yes, I do."

_So help you God is damn right._

Summers stood once again in the middle of the floor. "Mr. Truman, how old are you?"

John's expression was still infuriatingly indifferent. "I'm forty."

"According to the police report, your earliest victim was an eleven-year-old girl in 1990, Brooke Schwartz," Summers said. "How old were you then?"

"I was nineteen," he answered. "Still in college."

Burt was grateful for Carole's firm but calming grip on his wrist; it made him feel grounded, like he was still there. Otherwise he might have given in to his instincts and marched straight up to John Truman and wrenched his neck, punching Ruth Summers in the throat on the way over.

(He still wasn't entirely sure that was a bad idea.)

"And how old were you when your father died?"

"Fourteen."

"Do you believe that your mental health is unbalanced?"

John shrugged, tugging at a lock of hair behind his ear. "You already had the doctor talk about that."

"I want to know what you believe."

John fidgeted in his seat. He didn't look nervous, merely uncomfortable, like someone in a bathtub with water a little too hot. "No," he said. "Frankly, I don't really give a shit."

"The defendant will refrain from using coarse language in my courtroom," Ackerman cut in.

John rolled his eyes, and Burt shuddered. He'd seen that exact expression on Kurt's face hundreds of times, whenever Truman was awake.

"Is there a problem?" the judge challenged, quirking an eyebrow.

"No, Your Honor," John drawled, sounding bored and slightly irritated.

"What did you think about the kids you targeted?" Summers asked, bringing John's focus back to the examination.

John shrugged again. "Nothing."

"Did you have a type?"

"No."

"How did you end up with the kind of access to these kids that would allow you to have sex with them?"

"Their parents let me."

Carole's hand shot up and grabbed Burt's shoulder, forcing him to sit back, and he realized he'd instinctively jolted forward, his body still hell-bent on attacking and, even more, _protecting_.

"That's a bold statement," said Summers. "What do you mean by that?"

John rubbed the back of his fingers across the stubble on the underside of his jaw, almost in thought. "I didn't _look_ for these kids," he said. "The opportunities presented themselves."

"Is that how you view them? Opportunities?"

"That's what they were."

Burt felt the blood drain from his head, Carole's hand gripping his arm tighter.

"Are you willing to go through rehabilitating psychiatric treatment in order to deal with your past abuse and change these tendencies?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to?"

"Yes."

Summers nodded. "No more questions, Your Honor. John Truman has made it clear that his violent and sexually abusive tendencies have only to do with his own mental illness and is therefore a problem that can be treated through _extensive_ therapy. The defense rests."

Burt rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of the horrible dizziness stabbing into his eardrums. The blood in his veins was too hot, his stomach too cold, and he didn't think his lungs were functioning properly, but he tried to concentrate as Hiram stood for his cross-examination.

"Mr. Truman, we have records from your own apartment of all twenty-seven children whom you raped or sexually assaulted over the course of the past twenty-two years, ranging in age from two to fourteen," Hiram started, letting his hands hang in his pockets. "Of those twenty-seven, ten attempted suicide. Six succeeded. Eleven have been hospitalized for several-month stretches for depression and other emotional disorders. One developed split personalities in order to cope with what you did to him, and one was your own sister."

Burt sent a quick prayer skyward; the outcome of everything they'd been working for hung on this.

"And I'll leave it to the jury to imagine for themselves just how much _damage_," Hiram continued, his voice rising slightly, "this has caused in each of their families." He paused for a moment, John staring him down. "Now, perhaps you can explain to me, what the hell justifies criminal acts of this nature?"

John's mouth tugged up in an unfriendly smile. "Better watch your mouth, Counselor. No swearing in this court."

"Answer the question, Mr. Truman," the judge snapped.

"Why are you looking for justification?"

"Let's try another one," Hiram said tightly, changing the subject. He'd drawn himself up to his full height and was facing John down with absolutely no apprehension or reservation, and Burt wanted to jump to his feet and _applaud_. "Out of almost _thirty_ children, you must have liked some more than others. Did you have favorites?"

"Not really," John said, unperturbed. "I liked Kurt, though."

(Burt's heart stopped.)

"Why is that?"

"He fought me," John explained. "Most kids just lie there and do what you tell them, but it was a few days before Kurt did that."

Burt couldn't repress a grim smile. _That's my boy._

"Amy was fun, too," John added. "She was a biter."

"_YOU BASTARD!_"

Every person in the courtroom jumped at the cry from one of the back rows, all turning to see a young woman on her feet, her face blotchy and red-eyed.

"Alicia!" Her husband leapt to his feet and tried to get her to sit back down, but she pushed him off.

"_YOU SICK_ _BASTARD, AMY'S STILL IN PRESCHOOL!_" she screamed, her chest heaving.

"Order!" the judge demanded, banging his gavel. "Bailiff, remove her!"

The bailiff moved to push the woman out of the room, but her husband held up a hand to stop him. "Wait, wait—" he stammered. "Sweetie, come on." He wrapped an arm around her back and guided her out of the seats and up the aisle. "I'm so sorry," he said to the judge over his shoulder. "I'm so sorry." She hid her face, shaking, and the doors clunked shut behind them.

Burt let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, turning back to face forward. Carole had her hand over her mouth.

"Please continue, Counselor," Judge Ackerman ordered, huffing.

Hiram glanced at Burt before turning back to John. "Mr. Truman, if you liked some of these kids more than others, then clearly they weren't only objects to you."

John rolled his eyes again. "You never had a favorite toy?"

"Fair point," Hiram acquiesced. "But surely you must have experienced _some _feeling of hesitation, if our friend Dr. Bay was indeed right and you were only pushed to this by your father's abuse."

"Do you know what people are?"

"I suppose you're going to tell me," Hiram said flatly.

"People are _animals_," John said. "We're nothing but glorified chimpanzees. None of this _matters_. Sex is just sex."

Hiram narrowed his eyes. "Your Honor," he said without taking his gaze off John. "I believe the prosecution rests."

"The jury will now retire to the antechamber," Ackerman said, sitting up. "This trial is adjourned until the jury has reached a verdict."

The gavel was brought down with a final solid _bang!_ and – just like that – the fight was over.

* * *

><p>The jury was gone for exactly twenty-three minutes.<p>

* * *

><p>Kurt woke up slowly, confused and disoriented. It took him almost thirty seconds to realize someone was knocking on the door, and when he did, it only served to make him even more confused. Nobody was supposed to bother him until he came out of the Quiet Room on his own.<p>

He rubbed his eyes, trying to wake himself up. His limbs felt weighted and heavy, his skull stuffed with cotton. Yawning, he finally pulled himself off the bed and went to open the door.

Charlie was standing outside. "Hey, Kurt, how're you feeling?"

Kurt was forced to pause as another yawn delayed his answer. "Tired," he said, raking a hand through his hair. "What's going on?"

"Your dad's here."

Kurt blinked, not sure if he was still half-asleep. "I thought he was in Toledo for the trial."

"That was this morning," Charlie said. "It's almost seven-thirty."

Another layer added to the disorientation, then. Kurt must have been in the deepest sleep he'd achieved in years for the past eight hours or so. And he still felt drained.

"Kurt?" Charlie prompted, trying to get Kurt to focus. "You okay to see him?"

Kurt took a deep breath. "Yeah, absolutely."

"Okay. Come on." Charlie jerked his head in the direction of the ward exit as Kurt stepped out into the common room. "It's not visiting hours so he can't come in here, but you can step out for a couple minutes."

Charlie swiped his ID card through the scanner at the door, pushing it open and allowing Kurt to step through. Burt was standing outside talking to Dr. McManus, but stopped as soon as Kurt walked out.

"Kurt," he breathed. There was no hesitation as he rushed over and pulled Kurt into his arms, hugging him as tightly as he could. Kurt leaned into the embrace, not caring that it was hard to breathe. He felt _safe_.

"Are – are you okay?" Burt asked softly, his hand on the back of Kurt's head. His voice was strained, like he was trying not to cry.

"I'm fine, Dad," Kurt said into Burt's shoulder.

"He's gone," Burt choked out. "He can't hurt you any more, Kurt. He can't— You're going to be okay."

The air rushed out of Kurt's lungs, leaving his chest empty as he shut his eyes, his fingers digging into his father's back. He could feel Burt's chest shaking.

"You're going to be fine," Burt kept saying, his voice cracked.

A memory darted through Kurt's mind like a camera flash, of being small and held close and carried in Burt's arms from a police station, wrapped in a blanket and still with glass and blood in his hair, with Burt repeating promises over and over.

Maybe this time those promises would hold true.

Kurt didn't know how long they stood there, but it was a long time before Burt lifted his head and turned to ask McManus, "Can I take him home? Please."

McManus didn't reply for a few moments. Kurt's forehead was still resting on Burt's shoulder, but he eventually heard the doctor sigh and say, "I'll pull a few strings."

Burt kept his arm locked around Kurt until they reached the car.


	87. Therein Lies The Rub

_Therein Lies The Rub_

When Kurt opened his eyes, he felt… strangely rested. It took him several seconds to glance around the room and get his bearings, realizing that he was in his own living room on the couch and leaning on Burt's shoulder, but for once he could actually _remember _how he got there. Burt was snoring next to him, and must have turned off the TV at some point because the last thing Kurt could recall before falling asleep was watching ESPN.

Kurt pushed the blanket away from his shoulders, stretching out the crick in his neck, and gingerly moved off the couch so as not to wake Burt up. In the kitchen, Kurt found Finn making coffee. At least… he was pretty sure that's what Finn was doing. Finn was moving around the kitchen as if he was walking on balloons and trying not to pop them, standing on his tiptoes and wincing when the coffee machine started beeping to let him know it was finished (he flailed to turn it off).

"_What_ are you doing?" Kurt finally broke the silence, crossing his arms. Finn jumped almost a foot off the ground, spinning so fast he nearly fell over.

"_Jesus_, you scared me," Finn exhaled, his shoulders deflating. "I'm making you coffee."

Kurt couldn't help smiling at that. As frustrating and naïve and _stupid_ as Finn could be on occasion, one thing he never failed to be was endearing. "Were you attempting to be sneaky?" he asked, grinning.

Finn scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "I didn't want to wake you and Burt up."

Kurt had to suppress a chuckle.

"So, you want a cup?" Finn offered, holding up the coffee pot.

"Oh, uh… I – I can't drink coffee, remember?" Kurt said, suddenly feeling like an ass. He _wanted_ a cup, as much for himself as for Finn, and the smell was _amazing_, but he knew that if he drank caffeine would mix with his anti-psychotics and cause some pretty bad reactions.

"Oh," said Finn. "Right, I… forgot. Um, sorry."

"I'd love a cup of tea, though," Kurt amended before Finn could look too crestfallen.

Finn smiled. "Okay."

Kurt pulled himself onto a stool at the counter island, resting his chin in his hand as Finn set up the electric kettle. "Don't you have school today?"

"Not for another hour and a half; it's only seven."

"Wow," Kurt glanced at the clock. "You're up early."

Finn shrugged.

"How was the trial?" Kurt asked. "Dad and I didn't really get a chance to talk about it."

"It was a lot less fun than it looks on TV," Finn replied dryly, no doubt trying to lighten the mood a little. The kettle whistled behind him. "It was pretty intense. I'm just glad it's over."

"That makes two of us," Kurt muttered.

Finn slid a steaming mug across the counter to Kurt, then retrieved a glass of orange juice for himself from the fridge. Kurt sipped his tea in silence for a long minute, his stomach suddenly tight.

"What… what was he like?" Kurt finally worked up the courage to ask, hoping he wouldn't have to clarify whom he was talking about.

Luckily, Finn understood, swallowing and turning the glass in his hands. "He was… scary. I'm really glad you weren't there," he said. "I just wanted to run away the whole time."

"Welcome to my world," Kurt sighed.

"Well, you don't have to worry about him any more, dude. He's in jail for at least the next fifty years." Finn downed the last of his orange juice, dropping the glass into the sink. "And you should've seen Hiram, man. He totally killed it!"

Kurt laughed lightly, trying to ignore the fact that his stomach was still twisting. "Was it more like _Law & Order _or _Drop Dead Diva_?"

Finn paused. "I've never seen _Drop Dead Diva_, so I'm going to go with _Law & Order _on that one."

Kurt grinned into his tea as Carole came in from the living room, reaching over to ruffle Kurt's hair.

"Morning, sweetie," she said, making a beeline for the full coffee pot. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Want to help me with breakfast?"

"Yeah, sure," Kurt agreed, jumping down off the stool and realizing how much he'd missed feeling like he was able to contribute to anything besides a round of Connect-Four. Also, _cooking_.

"I'll get out of your way," said Finn, heading back upstairs to pack his bag for school.

For a while, Kurt and Carole worked in a comfortable silence, the smell of French toast filling the kitchen as Carole manned the stove and Kurt chopped bananas into slices for topping. It was a relief to be spending time with one of his parents and not feeling pressured to do anything besides just _be _there, and for the first time in several months Kurt felt a little lighter on his feet.

Unfortunately, Carole didn't seem quite as comfortable in the lack of conversation as he was, and she eventually cut through. "So, how's life been in the hospital? Have you made any friends?"

While Kurt could appreciate that she was actively not asking him about his treatment and instead just wanted to know about his _life_, the inquiry still made the muscles in his neck and spine tighten slightly. "Sort of," he responded. "I guess. There's a couple of guys I hang out with." He left out the fact that Dustin _still _refused to talk to him since their shouting match.

"What about your roommate?" Carole asked. "Is he nice?"

Kurt tipped the mound of banana slices off the cutting board and into a bowl, avoiding Carole's eye. "Scott can't really put a sentence together ninety percent of the time," he replied, probably coming across a little shorter than was necessary. "I don't really talk to him."

"Oh," Carole faltered. It was a long minute before she worked up the courage to say, "How about your sessions with Dr. McManus? How are they going?"

Kurt took a deep breath; that was where he drew the line. "Carole, no offense, but I really don't want to talk about the hospital when I'm at home," he said. "Can we just… leave it? Talk about something else?"

"Sure. Of course." She nodded, and Kurt could easily hear the hurt in her voice. He felt like a complete and total asshole.

Carole heaped the stack of French toast onto a plate and slid it onto the counter island, dropping the bowl of banana slices next to it. Kurt was pretty sure she was more nervous than anything else, which made him feel even _more _like an ass, because she shouldn't have to feel nervous around him.

Carole tucked her hair behind her ears, chewing on the insides of her cheeks for a moment before placing a hand on Kurt's arm. "Kurt, you know I love you very much, right?"

Kurt smiled, relieved that she didn't seem to have taken his straight-arm too much to heart. "You put up with all my crazy as much as Dad does," he said. "Message received."

* * *

><p>After breakfast, Finn headed off to school and Carole left for work, leaving Burt and Kurt to clean up the kitchen. Once they were done, Burt suggested that they go for a walk, and Kurt eagerly seized the opportunity for fresh air. Yet another thing he'd been sorely missing – <em>the outdoors<em>.

They ended up going to Schoonover Park and walking along the lake, and Kurt was relishing in the feeling of the sun on his skin. His jacket was pulled up tight around his torso despite the fact that it wasn't cold, even in the spring breeze – he just seemed to be having a hard time keeping himself warm. Kurt blamed the weight loss.

Burt dropped an arm around Kurt's shoulders as they walked (it was the first time he'd done so in months without the immediate intention of keeping Kurt from falling apart). "You seem like you're feeling better," he said.

"I am," Kurt nodded, looking up at the trees as they rustled in the wind. "I mean, I know I'm not and I know the alters are still here, but today just feels like a good day, and I'm going to try to keep it that way."

"Good."

The two of them eventually sat on a bench overlooking the lake, Kurt shivering slightly as the breeze tugged on his hair. He ran his fingers through it, making a mental note to ask Carole for a haircut later.

"You cold?" Burt asked, noticing Kurt's hunched shoulders.

"I'm fine."

"We can head home if you want."

Kurt shook his head. "I like it out here." He closed his eyes, leaning his elbows on his knees and allowing the sun to soak into his skin and hair. He drew a long breath through his nose. The warmth wasn't quite reaching deep enough to make him stop shivering, but it was nice just the same. He could tell that Burt was watching him, and for once… Kurt didn't feel scrutinized.

He desperately hoped this would last.

"Kurt, I'm so sorry I left you."

The apology came out of nowhere, so abruptly that Kurt wasn't entirely sure he'd heard it. He opened his eyes again, turning to look at his father in confusion. "Dad, I don't blame you—" he started, but Burt cut him off.

"Stop it. Let me finish," Burt said gently. "You _do_ blame me, Kurt."

Again, Kurt opened his mouth to argue, and again Burt stopped him.

"It's okay. There's no point in dancing around it; that's already caused enough damage." Burt sighed, glancing out over the lake as it rippled in the wind. "And I accept that. But I still want you to know, because I don't want you to think for a second that you can't trust me now."

Kurt swallowed. "Okay."

Burt reached up and ruffled his hair. "I love you, kiddo; don't ever forget it."

Kurt was at a loss for how to respond, so rather than react verbally he simply leaned over and allowed Burt to wrap his arms around him. He didn't feel like he needed the physical support – at least, not at the present moment – but maybe Burt did.

"Truman threatened me again," Kurt admitted after a minute, not because he wanted to add tension but rather because he just didn't want to hide anything anymore.

Burt didn't react immediately, and it was a few moments before he responded, his hands tightening slightly around Kurt's frame. "To kill you?"

"Yeah."

"Do you believe him?"

"I don't know."

"Do I have your permission to kick his ass?"

Kurt snorted, beyond relieved that this wasn't turning into an argument. "If you can get him out of my head, I will help you beat him to a pulp."

Burt sat back against the bench, leaving one arm looped around Kurt's back. "Finn and Carole should know about this, just so they're on guard," he said.

Kurt nodded. "I'll tell them when they get home."

"You want to head back now?"

Kurt sighed, watching a few clouds float by, showing no signs of rain or thunder. "Not yet," he said. "I like it here."

* * *

><p>Blaine wasn't entirely sure why, but he'd spent the entire day on edge. He'd been tense, quick to irritate, and just generally not fun to be around since he'd woken up that morning, and he may or may not have snapped at a couple of freshmen who were walking too slowly in the hallways after lunch. Glee rehearsal was more exhausting than usual with Nationals coming up in three days (well, technically four, but Saturday would be spent traveling to Chicago and so there were only three days left for practice). Blaine's dance steps had all been too sharp and jerky and Santana had yelled at him for stepping on her toes more than once, and he just wanted to punch a wall but he didn't have time to pay a visit to the boxing bag in the weight room.<p>

So, after rehearsal was finished, he walked to his car and was about to go home and tackle his homework (and undoubtedly end up throwing his books at his bedroom wall) when his phone blasted _Rio_ from his pocket.

He let out a heavy breath, resting his head against the rim of the steering wheel to calm himself down for a second before answering the phone. "Hello?"

"_Hey, Bee!_" Cooper greeted him from the other side of the country. "_How're you doing?_"

"I'm – I'm okay," Blaine said, wanting nothing more than to just go home and bury his head under his pillow and not wake up again for a week.

"_Uh-oh_."

Blaine's eyebrows snapped together at the tone of Cooper's voice. "What?"

"_You're doing that thing again._"

"What thing?" Blaine was going to reach through the phone and punch his brother if Cooper didn't stop acting like such an all-knowing ignoramus (and yes, Blaine was aware that was an oxymoron).

"_You know, that thing you always do when you don't want to talk about bad stuff because you're afraid of Mom and Dad reacting._"

Blaine blinked at his windshield. "I…"

"_I'm not Dad, Bee,_" Cooper assured him. "_If you want to talk, I'm here._"

Blaine huffed. "Don't you have auditions to go to, or something?"

"_Not until tomorrow and I want to make sure my little brother isn't going to explode from pent-up stress,_" Cooper replied smoothly. "_So open up before I come up there and drag your ass back to L.A. for some much-needed relaxation._"

Blaine paused, the insides of his cheeks clamped between his teeth.

"_What's going on?_"

"I was at the trial yesterday," Blaine forced himself to say. "Of – of the guy who attacked Kurt when he was a kid."

"_Oh,_" Cooper's voice softened a little, bearing the gravity of the situation. "_What happened?_"

"Nothing, it's fine, we…" Blaine trailed off, uncertain of where that sentence had been headed. "He's in jail, so everything's fine."

"_But…?_" Cooper pushed.

Blaine felt a rock stretch the inside of his throat, and the fingers not currently holding the phone gripped the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary. "I— God, Cooper, the things they were talking about…"

Why was it suddenly hard to speak?

Blaine swiped the heel of his hands over his eyes, swallowing. "I just feel so _bad_ about _everything_."

"_Why?_"

"Because I wasn't there for him, Coop!" Blaine cried, his voice cracking. "I ran away! Again!" His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding against each other and his eyes squeezing shut.

God, he just wanted to go _home_.

"_Whoa, whoa, whoa, Blaine…_" Cooper stopped him. "_Take a second and breathe, okay?_"

Blaine sniffed, forcing a swallow (the rock in his throat stayed where it was). "Sorry," he said as evenly as he could manage.

"_You know that none of this is your fault, right?_"

"But it _is_, Coop!" Blaine argued, unable to stop himself. "I mean – Kurt only started getting really bad after I freaked out at him. I don't know what to _do_."

"_Bee, you've got to stop trying so hard_," Cooper told him firmly. "_Listen, maybe Kurt just needs some space to do what he needs to do to deal with all his crap; it's not the end of the world if you're not a part of that._"

Somehow, that statement hurt more than any barrage of guilt Blaine had thrown himself underneath up until this point. He hung his head, fighting tears and feeling childish. "I want to help him," he said.

"_I know,_" Cooper sympathized. "_That's what makes you a better man than me, bro. But like I said, it's not the end of the world, so try and remember that, okay?_"

"Okay," Blaine lied (because it really did feel like the end of the world and he still had no idea what to do about that).

"_I've got to go; my agent's calling me_," Cooper said, already sounding distracted. "_I'll talk to you later, Bee._"

The conversation was over as quickly as it had begun, leaving Blaine with just as much guilt as before and not enough relief.

* * *

><p>In the middle of the night, Finn woke up hungry. This wasn't by any means an unusual occurrence, and within a few moments of dragging himself out of bed he was in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge for a midnight snack. The fridge light was the only thing illuminating the kitchen, and as he pulled a Jell-O pudding cup out and shut the door, the room plunged back into darkness.<p>

Fumbling to turn on the light over the sink (he didn't know why he never remembered to turn on the lights _first_ when he came down to eat), Finn's attention was caught by a second light out of the corner of his eye. He paused, turning to see a just-fading orange pinpoint outside the window, on the front porch. He frowned, setting his snack on the counter and heading for the front door, wondering if he'd been seeing things.

Leaning to peer through the door's glass pane, Finn spotted the light again, flaring and glowing orange before dying away, and he realized with a jolt that it was the burning end of a lit cigarette. His stomach churning, he pushed the door open.

"What are you doing out here?"

Kurt was leaning over with his elbows propped on the porch rail, the cigarette dangling lazily from his fingers. He glanced at Finn for a second over his shoulder, entirely unperturbed, then tapped the ashes into the rosebushes Carole had planted beneath the porch.

"Carole throws a fucking tantrum whenever I smoke inside and I don't want to listen to her screech," was his flat reply.

Finn tensed. "Don't talk about my mom like that."

Kurt snorted, taking another drag from the cigarette. "Mama's boy," he said, his face glowing in the orange light for just a moment.

Finn didn't move, his toes gripping the hard wood floor of the porch.

Kurt blew his last inhalation out through his nose, the smoke curling up and around his ears as he turned around to lean his back against the rail. "What do you want?" he prompted, sounding mildly annoyed that Finn was talking to him.

Finn shifted his weight from foot to foot, not knowing if the movement was a result of being cold in the night air or nervousness due to the fact that he couldn't really see Kurt's face.

"Are you really going to try to kill Kurt?" he blurted out.

Kurt regarded him with an unsettlingly even stare. "What makes you think I won't?"

Finn's gut twisted so sharply that he nearly doubled over.

"Let me ask you something," Kurt said, blowing out another billow of smoke. "If I did kill him, what would you do?"

Finn gritted his teeth, his fists clenching by his sides. "I'd get him back."

"What if you couldn't?"

"I could."

Kurt's eyebrows quirked slightly, and he dropped the cigarette butt onto the porch, stamping it out beneath his heel. "Uh-huh," he said lightly, disbelievingly. "Well, good luck with that."

He brushed past Finn and headed back into the house, leaving Finn on the porch with goosebumps on his arms and a still-smoking flattened cigarette butt. It took Finn nearly ten minutes of standing in the night chill before he was willing to brave being in the same house with Kurt again.


	88. When There's Nothing Left To Burn

_When There's Nothing Left To Burn_

In the morning, Kurt was woken up by the pungent stench of cigarette smoke stinging the inside of his nose and mouth. Coughing, he jerked up and out of bed, only to have the smell cling to his clothes and follow him. Grimacing, he yanked off the wife beater he couldn't remember putting on (or even _getting_, for God's sake – where the hell had Truman gotten his hands on it?) and tossed it into the corner in revulsion. Unfortunately, the odor had also seeped into his pores while he'd slept and he was stuck with the disgusting feeling of having Truman embedded in his skin, making his flesh crawl underneath.

Trying to ignore how the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck were standing on end, Kurt pulled off the boxers he'd been sleeping in and rummaged through his closet for a towel. He was desperate for a shower, and as he headed to the bathroom he was relieved to find that it was unoccupied. He turned the water up to where it was slightly hotter than what he could comfortably stand, and then stood under the showerhead and let the water scald his skin until it was an angry red and all traces of Truman had been scrubbed away.

After shutting the water off, Kurt stepped out of the tub and wrapped his towel around his waist, breathing in as deeply as he could the steam clogging the air. The taste of smoke still lingered on the back of his tongue, so he brushed his teeth, wiping the mist off the mirror with his palm and glaring at the burn scars scattered across his chest as he did. He hated having a physical and permanent reminder of his own ability to inflict damage without even trying to stop it. Actually, 'hate' was probably nowhere near a strong enough word.

He headed back to his room and got dressed, stopping in the hallway before going downstairs as he heard humming coming from Burt and Carole's room. Walking back down the hall, he found his dad packing a small suitcase and singing an Arlo Guthrie song absentmindedly.

"I don't think I've ever heard you sing," Kurt said, leaning against the door frame.

Burt stopped humming, dropping a pair of folded shirts into the case. "I'm offended by that," he replied jokingly. "I used to sing to you all the time when you were a baby."

Kurt made a face. "I was a baby, Dad."

Burt shrugged. "I sang to you a lot after your mom died, too," he said. "You didn't like the quiet."

Kurt swallowed, glancing at the floor before changing the subject. "When's your flight?" he asked.

"I've got to be at the airport by two-thirty, then the plane takes off at four," Burt answered.

"I'm going to miss you, Dad."

Burt smiled. "Hey, I'll be back on Saturday," he said. "But I'm going to miss you too, kiddo. It's nice having you home." He zipped the suitcase shut. "You coming to the airport to see me off?"

Kurt nodded. "Absolutely. I think I'm going to go for a walk first, though."

Burt frowned slightly. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Kurt assured him. "Just want some fresh air is all; I'm kind of restless right now. I'll probably head up to Schoonover again."

"Okay," Burt shrugged. "So long as you take your phone with you."

"I'll be back by one," Kurt promised, leaving Burt to finish the last of his packing.

* * *

><p>Schoonover Park turned out to be further from the house than Kurt anticipated, and by the time he got there he was already tired. He sat on a bench overlooking the lake to rest, huddling in his coat even though logically, he knew it wasn't cold. After all, it was nearing the end of May; it was practically summer. It just… didn't really feel like it.<p>

He watched a couple down by the lake walking their golden retriever, and a little ways down the walkway at another bench was an old man feeding a small flock of birds. It was oddly peaceful, though Kurt wasn't sure why it should be odd at all. Maybe he'd just grown so adjusted to the chaos in his body that he'd forgotten what clarity felt like.

He suddenly wished that Blaine were here, sitting on the bench next to him. Not for anything romantic, surprisingly, but just for the sake of having something familiar. They'd probably be making up stories about the other people in the park, pretending that the couple and their dog were the family from _Marley & Me_, that the old man feeding the birds was about to tie a thousand balloons to his house and fly to South America. Kurt might be able to just _forget_ for a while.

Kurt pulled his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through the contacts until he found Blaine's name, his thumb hovering over the call button. He knew Blaine was currently in class, but Kurt was relatively sure that Blaine wouldn't mind skipping. Relatively.

_You can always call me_, he remembered Blaine saying. _I'll always pick up._

Kurt lightly chewed on his tongue, stuck in indecision. Even if Blaine did want to come, even if he hadn't just been saying that to be nice, Kurt couldn't be sure that their time wouldn't be completely ruined by Eleanor or Tyler or – God forbid – Truman showing up.

He swallowed, letting the phone drop into his lap, and then, as if on cue, a voice snapped from the back of his head, _You are absolutely fucking terrified of me, aren't you?_

Kurt's chest tightened. No. He was _not_ going to give Truman the satisfaction of a response.

_Go on, call your boyfriend. I want to meet him._

At that, the fear clogging Kurt's heart was abruptly replaced by a flood of rage as Truman solidified exactly why Kurt couldn't call Blaine. His jaw clenched, and he picked up the phone again, searching his contacts until he found the name he was looking for, and – this time without hesitating – pressed the call button.

"Screw you, Truman."

* * *

><p>Puck had all but given up on even trying to concentrate on the math textbook in front of him, instead blankly staring at the jumbled equations and nonsensical theorems as the teacher droned on and on. He wasn't going to use this stuff in real life anyways; he didn't get why they insisted on teaching it to anyone who didn't want to be an accountant. And he <em>definitely <em>didn't want to be an accountant.

He was so zoned out that he almost didn't notice his phone buzzing in his pocket, but he managed to grab it before whoever was calling hung up.

_Call from: Kurt Hummel._

Puck blinked, half startled and half confused. Why the hell would Kurt want to call him in the first place?

The screen went dark again as the call was cut off on the other end.

"Mr. Puckerman, is there something more pressing occupying your time?" the teacher drawled in annoyance, glaring at him over the rims of her glasses.

Puck's jaw twitched. "Actually, yeah," he said, standing up and heading for the door.

"Excuse me—!" she protested, puffing up her chest.

"It's an emergency," he snapped, something about his tone making her stop in her tracks. He turned and strode out of the room, already re-dialing Kurt's number.

"_Hello?_"

"Kurt, are you okay?" Puck leaned back against the wall of lockers.

"_Yeah, I'm fine._"

"Why'd you call?" If Puck had just run out of class for a butt-dial, he was going to be pissed.

"_I, uh… I wanted a favor._"

Puck shrugged. "Okay, shoot." So, not a butt-dial, but still a little weird.

"_I want to get a tattoo._"

Puck nearly choked on nothing. "You what?"

"_I want a tattoo,_" Kurt repeated.

"You serious?" Puck had to ask.

"_Yes._"

"But… why?"

"_Do I need a reason?_" was Kurt's unperturbed response. Puck was starting to worry a little that this wasn't Kurt talking and instead he'd been phoned by one of the alters (or whatever they were called). "_I'm eighteen; it's not against the law._"

"Well, no, but…" Puck hesitated. "I don't know, you just don't seem like the type."

"_I didn't seem like the type to be crazy, either, and that didn't stop me_," Kurt replied flatly.

Puck stopped short. Was he supposed to react to that?

"_So, do you know any good artists?_"

Puck clamped his teeth onto the inside of his cheek for a second. He was probably going to hell for this. "Yeah, I've got a couple," he said. "You want me to go with you?"

The offer was out of Puck's mouth before he realized he'd said it, and he wasn't sure why exactly he wanted to. Maybe he was still not a hundred percent sure he was currently talking to Kurt and, if that were the case, someone had to be there to talk him out of it.

"_That… would actually be great, Puck,_" Kurt said, sounding surprised. "_Thanks._"

* * *

><p>Puck picked Kurt up from Schoonover Park in his truck, then drove halfway across town to Eternal Ink.<p>

"This isn't where Quinn got her Ryan Seacrest tattoo done, is it?" Kurt remarked as he jumped down out of the cab.

Puck snorted. "No, she went to White Wizard." He let Kurt go into the shop ahead of him, still studying Kurt closely and trying to figure out what the hell was going on in Kurt's head to prompt this.

"Be with you in a minute," said the muscled guy with the ponytail sitting behind the counter.

Kurt browsed the photographs and patterns of choices decorating the wall, and it was starting to freak Puck out just how _calm_ Kurt was acting.

"So… what are you thinking?" he asked, feeling uneasiness claw at his stomach.

"I'm not sure," Kurt replied thoughtfully, his arms crossed.

"Well, I'm not going to protect you from your dad if you get a giant portrait of Lady Gaga tattooed on your back," Puck remarked, scratching at the base of his mohawk.

Kurt laughed. "As if I'd actually do that."

Puck let out a huff of breath. "Seriously, Kurt, why are you doing this?" he forced himself to say.

Kurt didn't turn around. "Why are you acting like it's a big deal?"

"I've known you for, like, _ages_," Puck insisted. "You're not a tattoo kind of guy."

Kurt actually seemed irritated by the statement. "Puck, you have no idea what kind of guy I am," he said tightly. "I know you don't, because I have no idea either. But regardless of who I am, I still have control over my own body and what I do with it. So please stop questioning it."

Puck fell quiet, wondering if he should call Finn or Kurt's dad. He had a feeling that that would only piss Kurt off, though, and he didn't seem like he was about to have a freakout, so Puck just wasn't sure.

Kurt sighed. "What?" he prompted, probably able to hear the gears in Puck's head spinning from where he was.

"Dude, I just don't want you to make a mistake if that's what this is," Puck said.

"I make mistakes all the time, Puck," Kurt replied evenly. "The problem is that I never have any say in them. It's time for a change."

Puck blinked, not really getting what Kurt was saying. Before he could ask for clarification, though, the guy behind the desk asked Kurt if he'd made a decision.

Kurt pointed to a picture on the wall. "This one."

"Where do you want it?"

Kurt moved to take a seat in the artist's chair. "On the side of my neck."

Puck's eyes widened. "Whoa, really?"

"I want to be able to see it in the mirror, no matter what," Kurt explained smoothly.

"You're going to look like a total badass."

Kurt leaned his head to the side to give the artist easier access to his neck. "Here's hoping."

* * *

><p>Burt was in the living room double-checking his files to make sure he had all of the paperwork he needed to bring to D.C. with him when he heard the front door open and shut. He glanced at the clock; good, Kurt was home half an hour early.<p>

"Hi, honey, how was your walk?" he heard Carole say in the kitchen, then abruptly exclaim, "Oh my _God!_"

Burt frowned. That couldn't be good.

He quickly left his files where they were on the coffee table and walked to the kitchen, not sure what to expect. Horrible scenarios flashed through his head – Kurt switching while he was out on his own and getting into a fight, Truman making him walk in front of a moving car or burning him with more cigarettes, and a hundred other things. Burt's stomach twisted in his gut as he walked in to find Carole staring at Kurt open-mouthed, looking more confused than anything else.

Burt blinked. Kurt was shifting uncomfortably in place, and there was a square of clear plastic taped to the right side of Kurt's neck, covering an oddly shaped black stain on his skin.

"Is that—?" Burt started. "Kurt, you went out for a walk and came back with a tattoo?"

Kurt paused. "…Yes?"

Burt glanced at Carole; neither of them knew how they were supposed to react. Burt was more than a little surprised to realize that he… wasn't mad. "Why?" he asked.

Kurt shrugged with one shoulder, moving over to the sink to pull off the plastic, revealing the shape of a black anchor roughly the size of Kurt's palm, the skin surrounding the fresh ink reddened and slightly irritated. "Because screw the alters, that's why," Kurt said calmly.

A chuckle jumped from Burt's mouth. "Okay, then," he said, unable to repress a grin.

Burt knew that he should be at the very least annoyed that Kurt hadn't asked for permission or even given a warning, but Kurt was legally an adult, and either way Burt was having a difficult time feeling anything but goddamn _proud_.


	89. Taste The Smoke

_Taste The Smoke_

One.

His chest felt tight as he kept his arms locked around his knees, his shoulders feeling cold as he tried to breathe in the dark. He lay curled on his side beneath his bed, his cheek pressed against the floor and his fingers curled into his pajama pants, nails digging into his legs. His heartbeat made everything else seem quiet.

Two.

The underside of the bed over his head didn't provide much comfort, but at least he felt a little bit protected underneath. A little.

Three.

_help me_

Why weren't his mom and dad there? He wanted his mom to hold him to her chest and hum until he fell asleep. He wanted his dad to smile and promise to take him out for ice cream. He wanted to stop being so confused.

Four.

He wanted his body to stop _hurting_. It didn't feel the same as the time he'd tripped in the driveway and skinned his knees and hands; it was _inside _and _outside_ and _inside_ all at once.

Five.

_please_

* * *

><p>Inexplicably, Finn drifted out of his usual deadened sleep much earlier than he thought was necessary on Saturday morning, despite the fact that he had to be at school by noon to meet up with the rest of the club (they had to be in Chicago that evening for the competition tomorrow). It was barely five-thirty, the sky outside just beginning to lighten, and Finn rolled over and pulled a pillow over his head to go back to sleep. Sleep seemed to be done with him, though, and he remained wide awake as the numbers on his clock ticked by and the room gradually grew lighter. At six, the sky outside his window had brightened to a pale rosy blue, and Finn grumbled to himself as he pulled his body out of bed.<p>

Raking his fingers through his hair until it stuck up in all directions, Finn yawned and left his bedroom, heading down the hall with the intent of finding some breakfast downstairs, but stopped short outside Kurt's door. There had been an odd-sounding _thump_ from inside.

Finn swallowed, knocking lightly on the door. "Kurt?" he called softly. "You awake?" There was no answer, and Finn wondered if he'd just been hearing things.

After a moment or two, Finn shrugged to himself and moved back toward the stairs, only to stop when there was another _thump_ from behind Kurt's door.

_Damn it. _"Kurt," Finn called a little louder, knocking on his door a second time. Again, there was no response. Finn sighed, his stomach clenching as he turned the door handle and pushed it open, ready to pull it quickly shut in case Red was waiting inside the room.

Kurt was asleep.

Finn frowned in confusion. Kurt was sprawled with the blankets tangled around his legs and one arm dangling almost to the floor. Other than the fact that he looked like he'd been tossing and turning, he was dead asleep.

Shaking his head and blaming his still-slightly-sleep-addled brain, Finn turned to continue downstairs only to stop short yet again when Kurt's leg abruptly twitched, jerking to kick the footboard of his bed. _Thump._

Well, that explained the noise, at least.

An odd, choked-off muffled sound came from Kurt's chest, his fingers digging into the mattress and then curling into fists.

"Kurt?" Finn said, not entirely sure if Kurt was just having some kind of nightmare or if one of the alters was waking up.

Kurt's only response was to twist onto his stomach, his back arching slightly and his hands curling and uncurling. He groaned into the pillow again, and Finn realized that Kurt's breathing was starting to sound hitched and uneven, like he was having trouble filling his lungs.

How the hell was he still asleep?

When Kurt's foot kicked the bed again, Finn finally went over and put a hand on Kurt's shoulder, gently shaking him. "Kurt," he said. "Come on, dude, wake up."

Kurt grunted and his arm flailed up to punch the headboard, making Finn flinch back. The muscles in Kurt's back went taut underneath his shirt, his shoulder blades shifting position like tectonic plates.

"Kurt!" Finn repeated, louder this time as he grabbed Kurt's shoulder again. "Wake up!"

Kurt's eyes snapped wide open, his entire body jolting as he sucked in a gasp of air, almost elbowing Finn sharply in the nose.

"Kurt!" Finn yelped. "Kurt, calm down."

Chest heaving, Kurt seemed to collapse back into mattress, his eyes still wide and shaded with confusion. "Sorry," he said.

"Are you okay?"

Kurt rubbed a hand over his face, nodding with his eyes closed.

"You don't look it," Finn remarked, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, Finn, I just had a bad dream."

Finn didn't say anything, studying Kurt closely. The anchor tattoo on Kurt's neck had gradually healed up over the past two days, but after the physical exertion of fighting Kurt's night terrors it was back to looking red and puffy around the edges.

"Are you sure?" Finn asked, scratching behind his ear.

"Everyone has bad dreams, Finn. It happens. I'm okay."

"All right," Finn said, knowing better than to push Kurt too far. "Well, I'm going to make some breakfast. You hungry?"

Kurt let out a weary huff, staring at the ceiling. "No, thanks. I think I'm just going to try to sleep some more."

Kurt pulled the blankets back into place and Finn left the room, shutting the door behind him. To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to know what had been going on in Kurt's head to cause him to act like he was being physically attacked, but with Burt still in Washington the responsibility of keeping Kurt safe weighed more heavily on Finn's shoulders.

Fortunately, the last couple days since Burt had left had been remarkably uneventful, aside from Finn's (minor) freakout when he'd come home from school on Thursday to find Kurt with an anchor inked onto his neck. Until this morning, Kurt hadn't seemed at all tense or irritable and none of the alters had shown up, a refreshing change from the past couple of months, but one that Finn wasn't ready to believe would last.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, Finn was sitting on a stool at the counter island in the kitchen, reading one of Burt's <em>NASCAR <em>magazines and working his way through his fourth bowl of cereal. Carole was down in the basement doing laundry, Burt was scheduled to get back home that afternoon, Finn had nowhere to be until he met up with the rest of New Directions at noon, and so far it was shaping up to be a quiet morning.

At least… it was until Kurt strode into the kitchen and slapped Finn lightly on the ass.

"Hiya, hot stuff." Kurt grinned over his shoulder, making a beeline for the refrigerator.

Finn jumped, every muscle in his body tightening. "Don't—" he started, feeling abruptly nauseous. "Don't do that."

Kurt pulled the orange juice out of the fridge, rolling his eyes as he took a swig straight from the carton. "What's got you so fucking tense?" he asked, sounding like he didn't give a crap about whatever Finn's response would be.

"Gee, I wonder," Finn retorted flatly, very purposefully keeping his gaze on the pages of his magazine, though now it was impossible to concentrate.

"You know," Kurt said thoughtfully a few moments later. "I was kind of pissed at Kurt for getting a tattoo without me, considering that tattoos are my thing and all, but I actually like this one."

Finn glanced up to see Kurt brushing his fingers over the anchor's outline, studying his transparent reflection in the windowpane above the sink. After a minute or so, Kurt seemed to grow bored and turn around, reaching for a banana in the fruit bowl on the counter island.

"So where's Hummel Senior?"

"Washington," Finn answered tightly. "He'll be back today."

Kurt ripped the peel away from the banana, looking mildly irritated.

Finn almost snorted. "Are you scared of him?"

Kurt's eyes snapped up to narrow at Finn. "Burt's still a little pissed off that I killed his kid—"

"_Tried_ to kill," Finn corrected. "You _tried_."

A tendon in Kurt's neck twitched. "Don't interrupt me," he said lowly. "Burt's still a little pissed off at me, so I'd rather not deal with his bullshit, all right? That's it."

Finn's eyebrows shot up. "I think 'a little pissed' is an understatement."

"Whatever," Kurt snapped, biting off the tip of the banana and slamming the peel into the trash. "Hey, is that girlfriend of yours coming over today?"

Finn bristled, the pit of his stomach going cold. "What?"

"I said—"

"I heard you. How the hell did you meet Rachel?"

Kurt shrugged pointedly, a slight grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You stay away from her."

"Or what?"

Finn's jaw clenched. He knew he didn't have much of a choice for how to respond. He couldn't physically attack Truman without injuring Kurt, and if he locked Kurt up in his room, Truman was bound to figure out some way of abusing Kurt while he had the chance.

"Don't you have anyone else to harass?" he snapped lamely.

"Nope," Kurt said. "Just you."

Kurt finished his snack (and Finn tried to ignore how it looked like Kurt was purposefully trying to deepthroat it in front of him) and then lit up a cigarette, much to Finn's annoyance. He leaned back against the counter, tapping the ashes into the sink. The smoke blew from his lungs across the counter to Finn's face.

"Ugh!" Finn grimaced, waving the smoke away from his nose. "Can't you do that somewhere else?"

Kurt shrugged again.

Finn rolled his eyes, knowing Truman was just there to bother him. Lucky for him, though, Carole had apparently finished her chores in the basement and walked into the kitchen then, immediately spotting the cigarette in Kurt's hand.

"Ohh, no!" she barked, marching straight up to him without batting an eye. "No, no, no! You _do_ _not_ smoke in this house! Out!" She pointed a furious finger toward the front door.

Kurt's lip curled at her. "The fuck is your problem?"

"Truman, you know exactly what my problem is. _Out!_"

Kurt drew himself up to his full height, towering at least a good six inches over Carole as he glared down at her. Finn couldn't help but feel a small wave of pride in his mother as Carole refused to back down, her finger still pointing to the door. After a long, tense moment, Kurt finally blew a billow of smoke directly into Carole's face, then turned and stomped out to the porch.

Carole coughed, her eyes watering slightly as she reached up to open the window over the sink.

"You okay, Mom?"

"I'm fine," she said, forcing a smile. "You?"

"Yeah."

* * *

><p>Burt was exhausted, but for the first time in a very long while the exhaustion stemmed only from his job, and it was a nice change. He was looking forward to spending the next couple of days on his own with just Kurt (Finn and Carole would both be in Chicago for the Nationals competition) and getting some much-needed father-son time. He and Kurt hadn't really spent any time together just for the heck of it in far too long, and Burt wasn't about to let this opportunity go to waste.<p>

The taxi finally pulled to a stop in front of the house and he quickly paid the driver and stepped out with his bags, already fantasizing about climbing out of his suit and tie and changing into clothes that didn't make him look like a white-collar stiff (even if he really was).

"I'm home!" he called as the front door closed behind him, setting his suitcase and briefcase on the counter. "Hello?"

Carole came into the kitchen to greet him as he was hanging up his coat, smiling and asking him how his trip was.

Burt shrugged. "Same as always," he said, giving her a kiss. "Where's Kurt?"

Carole tucked her hair behind her ear anxiously. "Well, um—"

She was cut off by a sharp cry of "_Take that, fucking cocksuckers!_" quickly followed the by familiar sound of videogame gunfire from the PlayStation in the living room, and Burt's heart twisted between his lungs.

He sighed, running his palm over his head. "How long has Truman been out?"

"Almost all morning," Carole answered, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "Finn said Kurt was here at first but he had some kind of nightmare that might have triggered the switch."

Burt nodded in understanding, fighting the urge to throw up. "Okay," he said. "Finn still here?"

"No, he already left for Chicago."

"You could have taken the same flight, you know."

Carole shook her head. "He wanted to go with his friends, and either way the train was cheaper. I do have to leave pretty soon, though." She glanced at the clock on the wall above the kitchen table.

"Okay."

"_Fuck you, Al Qaeda!_" Kurt shouted at the TV in the living room.

Carole was quiet for a second. "Burt, I can stay with you," she said. "I can cancel the train ticket."

He frowned. "Why?"

"I don't want to leave you alone with him."

Burt swallowed. "Carole, I managed this for a long time on my own. It's just a couple of days, and either way Finn needs you in Chicago. You should go."

"Only if you're sure."

"We'll be fine," he promised. "Did anything happen while I was gone?"

"No, he was okay up until this morning," Carole said, worriedly glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the living room. "But, um… Burt, I want you to be careful. Truman seemed… unusually confrontational this morning."

Burt wasn't really sure how to react to that. Truman had always been an aggressive personality; Burt hated to think what 'unusually confrontational' could entail.

Carole checked her watch. "Okay, I should get ready to leave," she said. "If anything happens while I'm in Chicago, I want you to call me. Day or night; I don't care."

Burt nodded, tugging at the knot in his tie. "No news is good news."

Carole planted a kiss on his cheek, saying a quick "I love you" before heading upstairs, presumably to finish packing. Burt let out a heavy breath, ripping the tie away from his neck and suddenly feeling doubly exhausted. He steeled his nerves, clenching his fists for a moment before forcing himself to walk into the living room.

* * *

><p>Burt spent the afternoon keeping an eye on Kurt from a distance, making sure that Truman wasn't left to his own devices for too long without supervision. He unpacked his bags and ended up sitting in the dining room, reviewing bills and revising drafts for work until after the sun had set and drinking three beers in the process. With a mild buzz in the back of his skull (from fatigue or alcohol, he wasn't sure), Burt yawned and rubbed a palm over his face, the paragraphs upon pages upon more pages beginning to swim in front of his eyes. He wasn't anywhere near drunk, but he'd reached a point where he could no longer focus on anything so tedious as work, so he packed up his files and shoved them back into his briefcase.<p>

He leaned into the living room to check up on Kurt, frowning when he saw Kurt leaning over the coffee table, doodling on a deck of playing cards with a Sharpie. "What are you doing?"

"Playing Solitaire," Kurt replied without looking up.

Burt quirked an eyebrow. "Really," he said disbelievingly.

Kurt flipped up a card to show off his artwork. "I thought the queens would look better with big tits." He shrugged. "And the kings too."

Burt huffed in irritation, already moving toward the stairs. "I'm going to take a shower. Throw that deck away when you're done."

"Hey, don't bash my creativity, old man," Kurt called over his shoulder as Burt climbed upstairs.

_I'm not old; I'm not even fifty_, Burt thought bitterly.

After spacing out in the shower for half an hour, Burt redressed in a pair of sweatpants and a too-big t-shirt and went back downstairs to find something to make for dinner. Passing back through the living room, he stopped short.

Kurt was still drawing, but he was no longer defacing the royal characters in a card deck and instead had retrained his Sharpie on several pieces of plain printer paper, which he must have stolen from Burt's desk in the next room and were now scattered across the coffee table. He'd moved to sit on the floor with his legs crossed under the table, his shoulders hunched and his back curled.

"…Truman?" Burt started, edging around the couch.

Kurt flinched, keeping his head down.

The air left Burt's lungs in a heavy breath as he saw what Kurt was drawing – sloppy and smudged Chinese symbols, over and over and over. There were stray blots of black ink smeared on Kurt's hands and fingers, and in some places the ink had bled through the paper to stain the table.

Burt sank to his knees next to Kurt, his chest tightening. "Zack…" he started. "Zack, look at me."

Kurt glanced at him for only half a second.

Burt sighed. That wasn't going to work. He scooted forward on the floor, noticing how Kurt's body clenched up the closer Burt got. Burt tentatively reached forward, tapping the table next to the symbols on one page. "Zack, do you remember what these mean?"

Kurt didn't respond, purposefully avoiding Burt's gaze as he continued to draw.

"You don't have to do this, Zack," Burt said quietly, trying not to startle him. "We already found him. We found Franklin."

At that, Kurt froze, his knuckles going white around the marker as a black ink dot bled out from its tip.

Burt placed his hand over Kurt's wrist. "You don't have to do this any more. He can't hurt you."

"Where is he?" Kurt's voice was small and hoarse, almost a whisper.

"He's gone," Burt promised. "He won't hurt you again."

Kurt's face contorted slightly, almost imperceptibly. "Yes, he will." His hand went back to drawing, the side of his palm dragging through the fresh ink and smearing it into his skin.

Burt shook his head. "No, no, Zack—" he tried, reaching over again to still Kurt's arm. "Stop—"

Kurt yanked away from Burt's touch. "Don't touch me!"

Burt swallowed, grabbing Kurt's arm before he could try to draw again. Kurt shrieked, his hands hitting Burt in the torso as Burt pulled him away from the coffee table.

"Let _go!_" Kurt cried, his knees slamming into the underside of the table as he kicked, trying to get away. "_Let GO!_"

Burt clamped his jaw shut as he dragged Kurt close, pinning his arms to his chest so that Kurt couldn't hit him again. Kurt was hyperventilating now, shaking and shuddering as Burt held him tight, trying not to crush him but not allowing any room for Kurt to pull away. It was almost shocking how _big_ Kurt was now, how much space he took up in Burt's grasp even as he tried to curl into himself.

Kurt pushed against Burt's chest again, but the attempt was weaker than before and Kurt's breaths were choked off by sobs now, muffled by Burt's shirt. "Shh, shh," Burt tried to soothe him, a hand on the back of Kurt's head. His other arm was locked around Kurt's shoulders.

And eventually, Kurt stopped fighting.


	90. Satisfaction To The Deluded

_Satisfaction To The Deluded_

Carole had just stepped out of the shower in her hotel room (_God_, she loved hotel showers – the water pressure at home was iffy at best) early Sunday morning when the phone on the end table beside her bed gave a piercing ring, startling her and nearly making her drop her toothbrush into the sink. She wrapped a fluffy towel around herself and half-ran to the phone, grabbing the receiver on the fourth ring.

"Hello?" she answered, shivering as her hair dripped onto her bare shoulders.

"_Hi, honey._"

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, followed immediately by worry. "Burt, what's wrong?"

"_Nothing, I…_" Burt said, though it didn't sound very reassuring. Carole could hear in his voice that he hadn't slept the night before. "_Just thought I'd call. See how you and Finn were doing._"

"We're fine," Carole promised him.

"_When's the competition?_"

Carole glanced at the clock. It was only 8:23. "It starts at noon," she replied. "I'm not sure when exactly Finn's performing, though."

"_Cool. Give me a call once it's over and let me know how they did._"

"I will." She chewed lightly on her bottom lip for a moment. "Burt, are you all right?"

There was a heavy sigh on the other end, and then a noise like he'd rubbed a hand over his eyes in exhaustion. "_I think so._"

"Did Kurt come back?"

"_No, uh… Truman was here for most of the day yesterday, and then Zack came out later on. Kurt's still asleep right now._"

"Did something happen?"

"_Nothing huge,_" he said. "_Nothing I can't handle._"

There was an indescribable weariness in Burt's tone, and it made Carole feel like her lungs were ripping apart from each other as the realization hit her – Burt _could _handle it. He could, because he'd been handling _all_ of it – the alters and everything that came with them – for nearly ten years on his own. He was too familiar with the position of being a single parent of a sick child.

Carole was abruptly slammed with a wave of _guilt_ for being in Chicago when Burt and Kurt needed her to be in Lima, and then another wave as she felt guilty for thinking that Finn didn't need her either.

"I love you, Burt," she told him, mostly because she needed to hear it for herself.

"_I know. I love you too._"

She glanced at the clock again. 8:27. "I have to leave in a few minutes; I'm meeting Hiram and Leroy for breakfast in the lobby."

"_Okay, I'll let you go._"

"Burt, you sound…" she stopped him from hanging up, but trailed off as the word disappeared from her tongue.

"_What?_"

_Unhappy—desperate—scared—_

_—lonely._

No wonder Burt had been too afraid to say anything about Kurt's illness when Carole and Finn had moved in with them.

"…like you're not all right," she finished. "What's going on?"

Burt was silent for almost ten seconds, and Carole's heart thudded loudly in her ears, anxiety gnawing at the pit of her stomach.

"_Zack's still drawing the Chinese stuff._"

Carole swallowed. "Sweetheart, I know that putting John in jail might help bring Kurt some closure eventually, but that's not something that will happen right away. These things take a while."

"_No, I know. I know._"

"It's not fair that he takes any more time from Kurt's life or yours than he already has, but we still have to be patient with Kurt, okay?"

"_I know,_" Burt repeated. "_I'm trying._"

* * *

><p>Burt hadn't been able to sleep during the night. At least, not for very long, and now his back and legs were stiff from sitting on the living room floor with Kurt for so long. It had taken him almost an hour to persuade Kurt to go to bed, and when Kurt finally surrendered, he'd spent so much of his energy that Burt had to nearly drag him up the stairs. Up until seven this morning, Burt had tossed and turned and swum in and out of consciousness rather than get the sleep he so badly needed, so he'd given up and spent the last several hours in the kitchen swallowing cup after cup of coffee as strong as he could brew it.<p>

He was in the middle of attempting the crossword in the Sunday newspaper when Kurt staggered into the kitchen, still half-asleep and rubbing his eyes. "Mornin'," he yawned, his hair sticking up in several directions.

"How'd you sleep?" Burt asked, taking a gulp of coffee.

Kurt blinked, almost jumping like he'd expected someone else. "Oh," he said, his brow knitting in confusion. "Hi, Dad. Weren't you supposed to get in this afternoon?"

Burt paused, mid-sip. "…It's Sunday."

"…Oh."

* * *

><p>"Damn it! Rachel, I can't get this damn pin right!"<p>

Rachel glanced up from where she was pinning up her hair in front of one of the dressing room mirrors, a few extra bobby pins clamped between her lips. Mercedes was looking at her imploringly, half of her hair still spilling over her shoulders. They (and the rest of the girls scattered about the room, all working on their hair and makeup) were clothed in lilac and black dresses to match. Rachel quickly made sure that her own hairdo was finished before moving to stand behind Mercedes.

"Are you all right?" she asked, pulling a few pins out of Mercedes' hair and starting over completely. It was unlike Mercedes to be anxious before a performance – at least, it was unusual for that anxiety to manifest as frustration with miniscule problems.

"I'm just a little nervous," Mercedes brushed off Rachel's concern.

"It's not the first time we've performed at Nationals," Rachel tried, twisting Mercedes' hair against her head.

"I know, and the last time we lost," Mercedes retorted tightly, reaching forward to move a pile of combs and hair ties aside. "This is our last chance to win before graduation. And now I can't find my damn purple eyeliner!"

Rachel's hands dropped to her sides, leaving Mercedes' hair alone. "Mercedes, you've never been nervous before. Not since sophomore year, anyway. What's going on?"

Mercedes sighed heavily, avoiding Rachel's gaze. "I _am_ nervous," she said softly.

"Why?"

"It doesn't feel right."

"Because Kurt's not here?"

Mercedes was silent, staring at her hands as they rested on the vanity table. Rachel moved to sit in the chair next to her.

"He was my best friend," Mercedes said after a minute. "For awhile, anyway. I – I don't know anymore."

Rachel frowned. "You don't think he's still a friend of yours?"

"I don't know."

"Why wouldn't he be?"

Mercedes propped her elbow on the table, resting her cheek on her fist. "It's more that I don't think I'm a friend of his."

"What do you mean?"

Mercedes opened her mouth to answer, but Tina piped up from the door as she and the other girls were filing out of the room. "Guys! Come on, the show's starting soon."

"We'll be there in a minute," Rachel said, waving her off.

Tina shrugged and followed Brittany and Sugar out, shutting the door behind her. Rachel turned her attention to Mercedes, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

"I never visited him in the hospital," Mercedes admitted, her fingers tightly intertwining. "I never talked to him. I-I wouldn't talk to him." Her voice cracked a little, thick and thin at the same time. "He scared me."

"I think you should keep Kurt and his alters separate," Rachel advised gently, resting her hands in the airy purple skirt covering her lap. "You know Kurt would never act like they do."

Mercedes closed her eyes with a sigh, brushing a palm over her forehead. "God, how did this get so messed up?"

Rachel swallowed, feeling a small wave of nausea as the image of a small – _incomprehensibly _small – Kurt lying curled and bruised and cringing in a bed belonging to someone less fragmented. "Things get messed up, Mercedes," she said quietly, almost absentmindedly, staring into space. "It happens."

"I could've done something."

"Maybe, maybe not," Rachel countered, blinking and sitting up straighter. "You saw how Blaine was when this all started."

"Yeah, but Kurt's talking to Blaine again."

"Only because Blaine started talking to Kurt," Rachel said, turning to double-check her makeup in the mirror. "Kurt's not going to come to you at this point, Mercedes; he's got too much going on to worry about."

Mercedes sniffed. "I just wish he was here."

"I know, me too," Rachel agreed. "You know he would kill you if he saw you were nervous about going onstage, though, right?"

A tiny chuckle jumped from Mercedes' throat. "I'm not nervous about going out there," she said. "I'm nervous about going out there without him." She shrugged. "Guess I'm just used to knowing he's standing behind me."

Rachel pressed her lips together, then reached back to grab Brittany's eyeliner pencil from the vanity behind her. "Tell you what," she said, handing the pencil to Mercedes. "Finish your makeup, and I'll talk to Finn and Kurt and see if we can have the celebratory afterparty at their house."

Mercedes frowned. "You don't know if we'll win or not."

"Of course we're going to win," Rachel replied curtly, rolling her eyes. "Blaine and Santana are our soloists."

Mercedes' eyebrows nearly disappeared beneath her bangs.

"Oh, don't give me that look. We'd still win if I was singing."

* * *

><p>Burt and Kurt spent the morning on the couch with their feet propped up on the coffee table, the TV alternating between ESPN and Lifetime biopic about Meryl Streep and a gigantic bowl of buttery popcorn between them. It had been a while since they'd indulged in this routine of being two people with almost nothing in common but still trying to find a middle ground, and Kurt was relieved in the easy familiarity of it.<p>

When the popcorn bowl was empty and Kurt was just starting to doze off on the arm of the couch, the doorbell rang. Burt muted the TV and was about to stand up, but Kurt waved him back with a yawn. "I'll get it. Don't miss your game."

Kurt stretched out the kink in his neck as he headed for the front door, running his fingers through his hair to make sure it didn't look like a briar patch (and thank God Carole had given him a haircut on Friday) before turning the doorknob.

"…Quinn," he said, not quite a greeting.

"Hi," she replied, a tentative smile on her face and her hands in her jacket pockets. The smile faded as her eyes drifted down to the side of his neck, widening as she took in the sight of the anchor inked into his skin there, but she didn't mention it (Kurt wasn't sure why).

Kurt frowned. "Why aren't you in Chicago?"

"I was suspended."

His eyebrows shot up, more surprised by that than by the fact that Quinn was standing on his porch. "Seriously?"

Quinn shrugged with one shoulder. "I beat up Jacob Ben Israel."

Kurt didn't say anything for several seconds, simply because he couldn't tell if she was joking or even if he was supposed to react, but then a laugh burst out of his mouth. (Quinn looked mildly startled at the noise, but quickly recovered.)

"I, uh…" she started, pulling a USB stick out of her pocket and holding it out to him. "I taped our rehearsals for you. Since you weren't going to Nationals."

Kurt took the USB, simultaneously mildly astonished and _very _confused. "…Thanks," he said slowly.

"What?" Quinn prompted, tensing at the suspicious look on Kurt's face.

"I— Didn't you think I was faking?" Kurt had to ask.

Quinn's mouth pressed into a thin line for a moment before she responded, carefully saying, "I don't know if you are or not, but… at this point, I don't really care."

"Really," Kurt replied flatly.

She swallowed, her hands clasping tightly in front of her stomach. "I apologized to Finn and Blaine, you know," she said. "For how I was acting before."

Kurt didn't say anything, not really sure if he cared enough whether or not that was supposed to mean something to him.

"It was a while ago, in March," Quinn clarified, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I – I asked Finn to pass it on to you."

"I wasn't here in March."

"…Oh," she said lamely. She took a deep breath. "Well, I hope you enjoy the rehearsal video."

"Hey, Quinn," Kurt stopped her as she turned to leave. "You can hang out for a bit, if you want." He shrugged. He didn't really know why he'd extended the invitation, if he was being honest. Maybe he was just lonely.

She gave a hesitant, uncertain smile. "Are you going to change personalities on me?"

"Not unless you provoke me," Kurt matched her awkwardly joking tone. "Come on, we have sodas in the fridge."

* * *

><p>The New Directions were the fourth group of the day slotted to perform. As the third group (Streetwise, a club from New Orleans that seemed to be more of a hip-hop dance crew than a choir) took their bows following an energetic AWOLNATION medley, the New Directions crowded backstage, bustling about and double-checking to make sure their costumes were perfect. Mercedes' heart was thudding in her chest, her palms clammy as she fluffed her skirt. She wouldn't have to go onstage for another few minutes since Blaine was taking the first solo, but the wait almost felt worse than just getting it over with.<p>

Blaine was standing off to the side of the stage, watching the previous group take more bows than was probably necessary as he fiddled with rolling up the cuffs of his sleeves. His fingers were shaking. Mercedes bit her lip, then walked up to join him.

"Let me do it," she said, reaching over to button his cuff so that the sleeve would stay rolled just above his elbow. The boys' outfits were more informal than the girls' dresses – a tight black t-shirt, black jeans, and sneakers complimented with an unbuttoned collared purple shirt. Blaine's hair had less gel in it than usual, sitting a little more loosely on top of his head.

"Thanks," Blaine mumbled, shifting in place as he held out his other arm for her. "Hey, Mercedes?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you… do you wish you'd gone to the trial?"

Mercedes shook her head, swallowing. "No. Why?"

Something unidentifiable flitted over Blaine's face. "I-I can't stop thinking about it," he said. "I… kind of feel like I'm about to throw up all the time."

"I'm sure it's just stage fright."

He nodded, though he looked like he didn't believe her at _all_. "Yeah, it probably is."

The announcer's voice cut through the noise from the audience, calling, "_And now, ladies and gentlemen, from Lima, Ohio… the New Directions!_"

"Time for your solo," Mercedes said, quickly adjusting Blaine's sleeve one last time. "You'll kill it. Go, go, go!"

The lights on the stage dimmed and then shut off, and Blaine took a deep breath, swallowing before walking out into the darkness.

Mercedes' hands clasped together tightly as she watched Blaine step up to the single microphone stand, a spotlight clanking on a moment later and illuminating his silhouette. It was quiet in the auditorium, the room so large that the silence felt thick and smothering. Blaine's hands reached up to hold the microphone, drawing another slow breath before opening his mouth.

"_Come on, skinny love, just last the year,_" he sang, the words echoing all the way to the back of the audience. There was no supporting music, and Blaine's voice stood honestly on its own. "_Pour a little salt, we were never here…_"

The air abruptly halted in Mercedes' chest.

"_My, my, my…_" Blaine's eyes slit shut."_My, my, my… my, my… Staring at this sink of blood and crushed veneer._"

Mercedes felt Rachel come up to stand beside her, quietly reaching down to hold her hand.

"_Tell my love to wreck it all,_" Blaine sang, his voice rising. "_Cut out all the ropes and let me fall. My, my, my…_" His knuckles went white around the microphone. "_Right in this moment, this order's tall…_"

During the past few months, since everything had turned sour, Mercedes hadn't really given Blaine a whole lot of thought. Maybe she should have, but Blaine had always seemed so put-together and unwilling to show if he was having a hard time with anything. It was so different from Kurt, who had been an open book (or so she thought) even if he didn't want to talk about it.

"_And I told you to be patient, and I told you to be fine…_"

Blaine was so difficult to read, and it was almost a startling realization for Mercedes, who had always thought of Blaine as just… part of Kurt. She'd met him through Kurt, he'd come to McKinley for Kurt, and now that Kurt was gone, Mercedes was slammed with the fact that she really didn't know him at all.

"_And I told you to be balanced, and I told you to be kind…_"

Rachel's hand tightened around Mercedes' fingers. Blaine's face was slightly contorted, the contours of his jaw and cheeks and eyes highlighted by the spotlight beam.

"_And in the morning I'll be with you, but it will be a different kind, 'cause I'll be holding all the tickets, but you'll be owning all the fines…_"

Blaine leaned away from the microphone for a moment, still gripping it tightly as he caught his breath.

"Do you think he's okay?" Mercedes whispered.

Rachel didn't take her eyes off him. "I don't know."

"_Come on, skinny love, what happened here?_" Blaine continued, a trace of rough desperation slipping into his voice. "_Suckle on the hope in lite brassiere… My, my, my… My, my, my… Sudden load is full, so slow on the split._"

"When was the last time he and Kurt talked?" Mercedes asked out the corner of her mouth.

Rachel shook her head, shrugging. "Before the trial, I think. I'm not sure."

"_And I told you to be faithful, and I told you to be fine…_" Blaine's voice had fallen to a heavy tone, the roughness gone. "_And I told you to be balanced, and I told you to be kind… Now all your love is wasted; and who the hell was I? 'Cause now I'm breaking at the britches, and at the end of all your lines…_"

He took another deep breath, the sound of it reverberating through the microphone.

"_Who will love you? Who will fight? And who will fall, far behind?_" His eyes closed tightly again. "_Come on, skinny love, just last the year…_"

Blaine's voice faded away, and the spotlight vanished.

* * *

><p>His heart thudding painfully in his chest and <em>roaring<em> in his ears, Blaine quickly moved off the stage to make room for the girls in the Troubletones to take their places for the next number. Blaine felt nauseous and slightly dizzy, and he had no idea if he'd received applause or not. Breathing deep and trying to get his stomach to stop churning, Blaine leaned back against the wall backstage, tugging his fingers through his hair.

"Dude," said Sam, placing a hand on Blaine's shoulder. "You okay? You look like you're going to hurl."

"I just need a minute," Blaine breathed, refusing to look Sam in the eye.

Why was this happening to him? Why couldn't he just _calm down?_

Out on the stage, the lights had begun to dance through the air along with the girls, illuminating them like glow-in-the-dark stars pinned to the wall. "_Weep for yourself, my man, you'll never be what is in your heart,_" Mercedes crooned, her silky voice supported by the overlapping harmonization from the rest of the girls as they spun across the floor. "_Weep, little lion man, you're not as brave as you were at the start…_"

"_Rate yourself and rake yourself, take all the courage you have left,_" Santana chimed in, her words richly overtaking the song. "_Wasted on fixing all the problems that you made in your own head._"

Blaine's chest tightened, his lungs clenching around his heart and making his brain feel light in his skull. Why was it so hard for him to breathe?

"_Tremble for yourself, my man, you know that you have seen this all before,_" Mercedes belted. "_Tremble, little lion man, you'll never settle any of your scores._"

"_Your grace is wasted in your face; your boldness stands alone among the wreck. Now learn from your mother, or I'll spend your days biting your own neck._"

This wasn't fair.

"_But it was not your fault, but mine—_"

This wasn't _fair._

"_And it was your heart on the line—_"

He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, willing oxygen into his blood.

"_I really messed it up this time, didn't I, my dear?_"

Why couldn't he just _breathe_?

The music swelled, reverberating from the girls' rolling voices and through the air, making the wall shake at Blaine's back.

A hand suddenly clamped down on Blaine's shoulder, making him jump. Mr. Schue was looking down at him with his brows furrowed in concern, and _God_, Blaine hated that look.

"Blaine, are you all right? Sam asked me to check on you."

"I-I, uh…" Blaine stammered, blinking several times as the lights from the stage flashed against his retinas.

"Are you sick?"

"No, I—"

"If you're not feeling well, I can talk to Mike and see if he'll take over your parts for the next two numbers; he knows all the words and—"

Blaine shook his head quickly. He was fine. He had to be fine.

"_But it was not your fault, but mine!_"

Because _none_ of this really had anything to do with him.

"_And it was your heart on the line!_"

It wasn't his problem. So, for God's sake, why couldn't he let it go?

"_Weep for yourself, my man—_"

"_Tremble, little lion man—_"

"_It was not your fault, but mine—_"

Mr. Schue squeezed his shoulder, trying to keep him focused. "Blaine," he said. "If you're sick, you need to tell me now."

Blaine cleared his throat, shaking his head again. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs to their capacity before standing up straight. "I'm okay."

"What's going on, Blaine?"

"_I really messed it up this time, didn't I, my dear?_"

Blaine pulled his fingers through his hair, setting his shoulders back. "I'm okay," he repeated. _Let it go. Please, just let it go. Be fine. _"I'm okay."

* * *

><p>"So basically, you spend every week in the hospital and every weekend at home?" Quinn asked, sitting at the counter island in Kurt's kitchen, sipping orange soda. Kurt stood on the other side of the island, drinking a diet Pepsi from the can. They could still hear the TV in the living room where Burt was absorbed in a basketball game.<p>

"Pretty much," Kurt said.

Quinn dropped her chin into her hand. "That sounds exhausting."

"Trust me, it's the least of my worries," he muttered, glancing out the window.

She made a noise of agreement in the back of her throat, running a finger around the rim of her glass. "Out of curiosity, Kurt, are you applying to college this year?"

Kurt's response was slightly bitter. "That's another thing at the bottom of my worry-list."

Quinn swallowed, frowning into her glass as she bit her tongue and took another gulp of her soda.

"What?" Kurt prompted, no doubt uncomfortable with the look on her face.

Quinn shook her head, the glass clinking as she set it down. "Sorry, I'm just… still confused by all this."

Kurt pinched the bridge of his nose. "Quinn, I really don't want to talk about it," he said wearily.

Quinn's jaw tensed and she sat back irritatedly on her stool. "Oh, come on, don't do that," she huffed.

"Hey, this is all my business, all right?" Kurt snapped. "Not yours."

"I know it's your business, but if you keep bringing it up, then don't get mad at me for asking," Quinn retorted.

A muscle in Kurt's cheek twitched, barely visible, but he remained tight-lipped.

"You called me a cheap trailer-trash whore in the middle of the Lima Bean," Quinn said, forcing her voice to relax. "I know it's your business, but I'd still like to know why. _If _you want to talk about it."

There was a beat of silence, and then from the door, "Everything okay in here?" Burt had stepped away from the TV and was leaning into the kitchen, glancing between Quinn and Kurt.

"We're fine, Dad."

"You sure?" Burt asked, casting a guarded look in Quinn's direction.

"Just a minor spat between friends," Kurt assured him, and after a moment's hesitation, Burt acquiesced and left the two of them alone again.

"You could have let him kick me out," Quinn said.

"I don't need my dad to fight my battles for me," Kurt countered, not quite meeting Quinn's eye (she was mildly offended that this conversation qualified as a 'battle', but she supposed it was justified). Kurt sighed and pulled himself onto a stool opposite Quinn. "You're right; I'm sorry," he said tiredly. "I don't mean to be such an ass when I'm stressed, but I still come across as one a lot of the time. I'm working on it."

Quinn nodded in acceptance. "Okay."

Kurt's fingernails clicked as they picked anxiously at one another, his hands resting on the countertop. "I'm really not ready to talk about it," he started slowly. "At least, not everything, especially with you – no offense—"

"None taken."

"—but I think… I can try to explain it."

Quinn sat up a little straighter, ignoring the mild apprehension tugging on the base of her stomach. "I'm listening."

* * *

><p>Sam was worried. Like, <em>really<em> worried. He didn't pretend to even vaguely understand what was going on in the Hudson-Hummel house because of Kurt and his issues, but Blaine seemed to be spiraling out of control while desperately trying to keep anyone from noticing.

Well, Sam was never the most observant or the smartest person in any given group. But he thought the rest of their friends had to be absolute _morons_ if they didn't see the way Blaine had been practically collapsing and then, like a light switch, simply straightened his shoulders, swallowed, and lined up with the rest of the group as the Troubletones drew their performance to a close.

As they waited off to stage right, Sam edged back around Mike to stand next to Blaine, lightly clapping him on the back. "You doing all right, man?"

Blaine nodded, exhaling heavily. "Better now," he said. "Thanks."

Sam would have pressed for more details, but the Troubletones' song had finished and the rest of New Directions received their cue to take the stage. An electronic beat pounded through the floor as Sam took his place beside Sugar, several reddened spotlights twirling across the stage in time with the music, turning their costumes from lavender to deep violet.

"_Started in the morning – my head was getting hazy, couldn't keep my feet on the ground,_" Tina began, the skirt of her dress floating around her legs as she spun. "_She was making love to the mirror in the bathroom; didn't hear me talking out loud…_"

Sam quickly spun Sugar around and caught her by the waist in unison with the group as Rachel cut in, taking up the vocals.

"_Bubblegum, lipstick, baby's got me nervous – something's got ahold of my feet,_" Rachel belted, throwing her arms up in the air like she was begging for help. "_You just want to go where your problems won't follow, but baby, that's okay with me._"

Sam tried to watch Blaine closely as they moved forward with the rest of the boys, their voices rolling together as they chanted, "_Set fire with just a little spark – that's how it goes when you're moving in the dark…_"

Blaine's face was impassive, hardened as he concentrated on the performance, and Sam was already making plans to ambush Blaine later and make him _talk_. Or something. Anything to get him to quit being so isolated.

Brittany jumped into center-stage, grinning in the spotlight as she launched into the second verse, her feet weaving a myriad complicated steps beneath her. "_Got no money still, ain't that cool? I'm the little punker who was kissing you… Forget what you heard about modern love; she's still in the mirror, honey, fixing her mug, and I'm like—_"

"_Set fire with just a little spark!_" the boys shouted. "_That's how it goes when you're moving in the dark!_"

"You're not concentrating," Sugar hissed under her breath as Sam barely missed a step, almost treading on her toes.

"Sorry," Sam breathed, still trying to watch Blaine from where he was. He'd never been good at doing two things at once.

"_Live fast; it's a feeling, not an art! That's how it goes when you're moving in the dark!_"

Blaine spun into the center, a line of sweat beading on his forehead. "_Kids kiss, statuesque, out in the street… I don't really want to be a part of your scene…_"

Sam caught a glimpse of Blaine's fists clenching, and he looked like he might have forgotten that they had an audience.

"_Messed up! All the same! It's less about what you say, and more looking pretty, and I'm like—_"

"_Set fire with just a little spark! That's how it goes when you're moving in the dark!_"

Sam gripped Sugar's wrist, flinging her away and then pulling her back with a twirl. Blaine jumped back into formation, catching Santana around the waist.

"_Started in the morning, my head was getting hazy, couldn't keep my feet on the ground,_" Santana cut in, her voice overtaking Blaine's. "_Bubblegum, lipstick, baby's got me nervous… Something's got ahold of my feet! You just want to go where your problems won't follow, but baby, that's okay with me…_"

Sam took a deep breath, his fingers tightening on Sugar's hip. If no one else was going to help Blaine, then it would have to be him. Blaine certainly wasn't going to help himself.

* * *

><p>The red lighting from their third number melted away into bright gold, casting polished shadows over the entire auditorium as a fanfare of brass vibrated out from the stage speakers. The spotlight beams shattered into fragments, tumbling apart along with the singers onstage. Rachel had to suppress a smile as she danced alongside Mike – she knew this was their best performance yet. They had pulled out all the stops, and even if she wasn't singing herself, it was going to be a damn good show.<p>

Blaine and Santana whirled into the center, their hands gripping each other's tightly as Blaine's voice echoed off the auditorium walls. "_I don't like walking around this old and empty house—_"

"_So hold my hand, I'll walk with you, my dear,_" Santana followed, pressing her back against his chest. "_The stairs creak as you sleep; it's keeping me awake…_"

"_It's the house telling you to close your eyes._"

Mike grabbed Rachel under the shoulders and lifted her up, spinning her high in a circle as a bass drum pounded through the music.

"_And some days I can't even trust myself…_ _ It's killing me to see you this way._"

Santana grinned, her teeth flashing in the spotlight as their vocals combined, weaving in and out of one another.

"_'Cause though the truth may vary this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore…_"

Mike's chest was heaving under Rachel's hands as she braced herself against him, mimicking his footwork (as best she could, anyway – Mike had to be slightly nonhuman in order to pull off the moves that well) as Blaine reclaimed the lead.

"_There's an old voice in my head that's holding me back – I'll tell him that I miss our little talks…_"

"_Soon it will be over and buried with our past,_" Santana promised. "_We used to play outside when we were young and full of life and full of love!_"

Twelve pairs of feet pounded into the floor, stomping to create a _boom, boom, boom _in time with the beat.

"_You're gone, gone, gone away, I watched you disappear,_" Blaine belted, his fingers digging into Santana's hips. "_All that's left is a ghost of you._"

"_Now we're torn, torn, torn apart, there's nothing we can do,_" Santana answered, yanking away from him. "_Just let me go – we'll meet again soon._"

_Boom, boom, boom._

They were going to win. Rachel could feel it.

"_Now wait, wait, wait for me – please hang around…_" the entire group chanted, Rachel raising her voice in time with Mike's. "_I'll see you when I fall asleep!_"

As the fanfare returned, sweeping across the audience like a violent gust of wind, Rachel opened her mouth along with the rest of the group, their voices ripping from their throats and breaking in the light.

"_Don't listen to a word I say! The screams all sound the same! And though the truth may vary this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore!_"

* * *

><p>"Wow, that's… a lot to take in," Quinn breathed, pressing her hands flat against the table.<p>

Kurt nervously tore a hangnail away from his thumb with his teeth, avoiding Quinn's eye. He'd kept the majority of the details regarding his own personal history out of the conversation, somehow managing to describe his illness without describing the specific reasons for it, but he was pretty sure Quinn was able to fill in the blanks without his help and the idea of her doing so made him severely uncomfortable.

Quinn was quiet for a moment, probably working through all the new information in her head and trying to make sense of it. "I'm not sure I understand fully," she said after a minute. "But… that sounds really, really scary."

"And you wonder why I don't believe in God," Kurt mumbled.

Quinn's eyebrows knitted together, still deep in thought, and she rested her chin in her hand, staring pensively out the window. "Well… personally, I would've believed in God even more if I were in your shoes," she mused aloud.

Kurt bristled, immediately annoyed again at the notion that Quinn could plant herself in his shoes at all.

"I'm not saying you should or anything, Kurt," she amended quickly. "I guess I'm just… confused as to why you wouldn't."

"I don't _want_ God, Quinn," Kurt insisted, his throat tight.

"Why not?"

Kurt sighed, running his hands through his hair. "Did you know that most people with DID don't even start showing symptoms until they're in their late twenties or thirties?" he said, his fingers anxiously tracing the outline of his tattoo against his neck. "And that doesn't even include the personality switches – those come later." He swallowed, glancing at the floor. "My first alter showed up when I was eleven."

Quinn's mouth pressed into a thin line.

"I didn't suffer years and years of abuse like those people did. I wasn't attacked by anyone in my family. I was stuck with some random guy for two weeks, and now because of that, I've got a bunch of fake people rattling around in my head. Do you have any idea how _weak _that makes me?"

Kurt tried not to acknowledge how his voice had cracked slightly, praying that Quinn wouldn't notice.

"No offense," he said, gritting his teeth, "but I'm not going to waste my time clinging to a superstition for help. I've got my dad, I've got Carole and I've got Finn. I don't need God, and I don't want him."

Quinn watched him for several seconds in silence, and Kurt could practically hear the gears in her head rapidly spinning. He didn't want her sermons or her pity, and he was just praying that she'd get the message.

Then, Quinn clasped her hands in her lap and quietly spoke, making Kurt's throat squeeze shut.

"I think you're a lot stronger than me."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The songs used in this chapter are as follows:**

**_Skinny Love _–__ Bon Iver  
><em>Little Lion Man <em>–<em> _Mumford & Sons  
><em>Moving In The Dark <em>–<em> _Neon Trees  
><em>Little Talks<em> _–_ Of Monsters And Men.  
><strong>


	91. Kindling Struck Alight

_Kindling Struck Alight_

Sam spent the majority of Monday morning trying his best not to fall asleep during his classes, heaving returned to Lima with the rest of the club late the night before. He was worn out and didn't really understand why the glee club hadn't been given at least half a day off before coming back to school – especially since they were now national champions (holy _crap_) – but Principal Figgins had always seemed like the type of administrator to put his faith in the wrong aspects of the school system, so Sam figured it was probably not that much of a surprise.

In the middle of his study period, Sam finally caved and dozed off on top of his history textbook in the library, only to snort awake and nearly topple off his chair as his buzzing phone startled him. He quickly wiped a fleck of drool away from the corner of his mouth, before glancing at his phone.

_hey have u seen blaine today? _read the text he'd received from Mike.

_yeah i saw him in spanish this morning. why? _Sam replied.

_he's not in calculus_

Sam didn't have to think twice before typing _I'll go find him_ and hitting Send, then packed up his books and slung his backpack over his shoulder, leaving study hall behind. The entire club knew that Blaine occasionally spent long stretches of time on his own in the weight room (though no one ever really mentioned it), so Sam headed directly to the McKinley athletic wing.

Sure enough, he found Blaine standing in front of a boxing bag, out of breath as he drove his fists into it over and over again.

Sam gulped before walking forward. "Hey, man," he said. "What're you doing?"

Blaine jumped, having not heard Sam enter. "Oh, hi," he panted. "Just getting a few punches in." He shrugged and turned back to the bag.

Sam bit the inside of his cheek. "Why?"

"Exercise." The leather of Blaine's gloves smacked against the leather of the bag.

Exhaling slowly, Sam let his bag drop to the ground at his feet, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. "Blaine, you don't have to lie to me, okay? I'm your friend."

At that, Blaine stopped, turning around with a suspicious frown. "Excuse me?"

"Dude, you're supposed to be in Calculus now. Mike texted me."

Blaine gave an annoyed shrug. "So what?"

"So, you wouldn't skip class just to work out," Sam countered. "I—" He huffed, scratching at the back of his neck. "I'm worried about you, man."

"Why? I'm fine."

"Oh, come on," Sam protested, making Blaine scowl in confusion. "No, you're not. You practically had a mental breakdown when we were in Chicago yesterday – and don't give me the it-was-stage-fright crap."

Blaine sighed, his hands dropping to his sides. "What do you want from me here?" he asked, sounding weary.

"I want to make sure you're okay," Sam said. "Is that really such a bad thing?"

"Sam, I'm okay," Blaine insisted. "Really."

"Would you cut the bullcrap?"

"_What do you want me to say, Sam?!_"

Sam jumped, automatically stepping back. He hadn't expected Blaine to shout. Blaine's jaw was tight, the muscles in his cheeks clenching and unclenching, his shoulders rigid as he glared. There was a beat of silence, and then Blaine blinked, his shoulders slumping.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking away. "I didn't mean to yell."

Sam remained quiet, simply because he didn't know what to say.

"And… yeah, I'm struggling with all this," Blaine admitted, his voice skipping up slightly. "But there's nothing I can do about it because it's got nothing to do with me."

Sam frowned. "Why do you think that?"

"It's all Kurt's problems, all right?" Blaine said tightly, still not meeting Sam's eye. "Not mine. None of that stuff happened to me."

"Dude, if it had nothing to do with you, then you wouldn't be upset."

That statement seemed to catch Blaine completely off guard, and he was at a loss for a response, the air escaping his lungs without a word.

* * *

><p>The end of the school day found Will in his tiny and ill-lit office annex, grading Spanish essays and sipping coffee as the clock loudly ticked away on the wall, counting down to when he could pack up his briefcase and head home. He was still coming down from the high of the New Directions' win at Nationals, but his Spanish class didn't care one way or the other about that, so he was unfortunately stuck where he was.<p>

It was almost three-fifteen when a knock on the doorframe made him look up. Finn was standing in the doorway. "Hi, Mr. Schue."

"Hey, Finn, what's up?"

Finn took a couple steps into the office, shuffling awkwardly. "Nothing, I… was just coming to thank you."

Will's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. "For what?"

Finn shrugged. "For a great run, I guess. Graduation's coming up in a couple weeks."

Will smiled, a small wave of pseudo-parental pride washing over him. "Do you feel ready?"

"No."

"Good," Will grinned. "Nobody ever does."

"I had a really good time being your student," Finn said, shifting in place. "Even if I yelled and sometimes threw chairs."

Will had to laugh at that. Finn had always had his problems, but he'd come a long way from the boy who spent his free time tossing Kurt into a dumpster. "At least we've got a Nationals trophy to show for the last three years," he said.

Finn nodded. "Yeah… Speaking of which, we're having an afterparty at my house this afternoon." He scratched at his temple. "Do you want to come?"

Will hesitated. "Thanks, Finn," he said. "But I think you guys should have some fun without your teacher hanging around."

"Okay. I'll see you in class tomorrow, then."

Will sighed as Finn shut the door behind him, disappearing down the hall. It felt like decades since he'd asked Figgins for permission to take over the club, and there was absolutely no way he could have ever anticipated everything it would affect down the road, but it was strangely good to see Finn and the rest of the seniors go.

After all, there wasn't really any such thing as friendship between teachers and students.

* * *

><p>For the first time in what felt like years, Blaine was sitting on the floor of the Hudson-Hummels' living room. The entirety of the glee club was crowded into the room, occupying every seat and open surface and loudly chattering and recounting their Nationals experience for the benefit of the two members who had been missing. Blaine was squashed between Brittany and Mike against the DVD cupboard under the TV.<p>

"But oh my _God_, Kurt, you should have seen the look on Jesse St. James' face when the judges said we won!" Rachel exclaimed, perched on the arm of the couch next to Finn. "He looked like he was going to have an aneurysm right there in front of everybody!"

(Blaine thought it was kind of sweet how, even though both Kurt and Quinn had been absent, Rachel was directing her anecdote to only Kurt.)

(It was also relieving to see Kurt laughing along with everyone else, sitting on the floor at the end of the coffee table and looking stress-free and genuinely _happy_.)

"I had to physically restrain myself from saying something obnoxiously cocky to him as we were leaving the stage," Rachel giggled.

Santana rolled her eyes, reclining in the armchair closest to the TV. "You're always obnoxiously cocky, even when you're not the center of attention. Jesus."

Rachel opened her mouth to make a clever retort, but was cut off by Carole leaning into the living room from the kitchen.

"Guys, I have to run out to do a couple of errands for a bit, but I'll be back later," she announced, buttoning her jacket and slinging her purse over her shoulder. "Don't break anything, okay?"

Puck waved. "Will do, Mrs. H."

"Yeah, I've heard that before, Puckerman," Carole scoffed with a grin, already turning out the door. Blaine snorted.

"Who wants to put on karaoke?" Rachel piped up as soon as Carole was gone.

Santana groaned loudly. "Give the singing a rest, Berry!"

"Santana, it's our last chance to sing as a group!" Rachel protested.

"…No, it isn't," Santana countered flatly. "Graduation isn't for another two weeks."

Rachel pursed her lips. "Well, those chances are running out and we should take advantage of them."

Blaine, Brittany, and Mike quickly moved out of the way as Finn followed Rachel's orders and set up the karaoke game on their PlayStation, and Blaine not-so-accidentally ended up settling cross-legged beside Kurt.

"I'll go first!" Brittany volunteered excitedly, yanking Mike with her for a duet to _Sk8er Boi_.

As Brittany and Mike danced and sang and jumped up and down in time with the music, Blaine was _highly _aware of Kurt beside him – breathing, laughing, smiling, clapping, _being_. Despite the fact that Blaine wasn't looking at or speaking to him, it was a warm and welcome familiarity to just have Kurt sitting there and existing unsupported.

There was finally energy in the air instead of a vacuum.

Brittany and Mike finished their song, stepping down to make room for Puck and Finn to start _House Of The Rising Sun_, and Blaine worked up the courage to turn and nudge Kurt lightly in the shoulder.

"Hey," he said, just loud enough to be heard over the chatter of the other people in the room. "How are you?"

The weariness hadn't disappeared entirely from Kurt's face, but it was much harder to see, at least for the moment. He'd lost a very noticeable amount of weight in the past several months, and his cheekbones stood out further from his face as he gave Blaine a small (but _real_) smile.

"I'm getting there," he said simply, for once neither guarded nor on the verge of collapse.

Blaine returned the smile. "Good."

Maybe – just maybe – everything _would_ be okay.

* * *

><p>This was the most fun Brittany had had in a long time. She'd missed having everybody in one place for no reason other than to just hang out, and even if Santana was annoyed at the idea of karaoke, it was still Brittany's idea of a good party. Once the majority of the people in the room had sung (Brittany thought it was a little strange and sad that Kurt had refused the microphone, instead quickly passing it to Blaine), Finn pulled Apples To Apples out of the game cupboard and dealt out the cards as the group moved back and tried to form the best circle possible considering how small the room was. Brittany clapped her hands excitedly and cuddled up to Santana's side – she <em>loved<em> this game. She wasn't an idiot, but she knew that most games involving complicated strategies weren't her specialty, so Apples To Apples was perfect. And _way _more entertaining than that one time Artie had tried to teach her Gin Rummy.

Mike burst out laughing as he read through the first round of submitted cards. "Santana, did you seriously match 'Jack the Ripper' with 'Emotional'?" he snorted.

Santana smugly claimed her green card, sitting back and allowing Brittany to rest her chin on her shoulder.

As the rounds passed by, Brittany found herself watching Kurt closely as he shuffled through his hand of cards, constantly re-ordering them. She tried to squint to see if she could spot the other people Santana said were trapped in Kurt's head, but Brittany could only see Kurt.

She did remember Zack from the pool party, though, and how fun and sweet he'd been to play with. Knowing how nice Kurt always was, Brittany would be willing to bet Lord Tubbington's extensive collection of bling that all the people in Kurt's head were equally fun, even though Santana insisted they weren't (Santana always saw the worst in people).

Brittany couldn't imagine being trapped in someone's head herself. It was probably cramped and dark most of the time – no wonder they wanted to come out and control Kurt's body themselves. Brittany couldn't really blame them for that, but it still sucked for Kurt.

The only thing she'd _really_ been upset about was the fact that Santana had tried to lie to her about what was going on with Kurt in the first place. Because, really, she wasn't an idiot.

Kurt reached up to rub his temple, pressing a little bit too hard, and wincing very slightly like he was thinking too deeply about something.

"Brittany, you can't show me your cards," Santana said, pushing Brittany's hand back.

"Do you have any Advil?" Brittany asked softly, ignoring Santana's chiding.

Santana shook her head. "No, why?"

"I think Kurt has a headache."

Santana glanced at Kurt for a moment. "Britt, he looks fine. Come on, put your card down."

Brittany frowned, but did what Santana said and tossed in _Kittens_.

Kurt still looked like his head hurt.

"Who the hell put 'Helen Keller' down for 'Touchy-feely'?!" Artie demanded loudly.

"Come on," Puck protested with a snort. "Helen Keller's an automatic win card."

"You're a horrible person."

* * *

><p>Mercedes had been trying to work up the courage to talk to Kurt all afternoon, but as the afterparty segued from karaoke to card games, her plans seemed to get lost in the fray. She'd been continuously glancing at Kurt out of the corner of her eye throughout the couple of hours that they'd been at the Hudson-Hummels' house, but she'd had no conversation with him beyond a weighted 'hello' and she couldn't help feeling a sense of relief (which she was going to <em>ignore<em>).

But honestly, Kurt looked better now than he had in a _very_ long time. Granted, he was still way too skinny, his face a little too shadowed, but he was actually having _fun_.

It was almost weird to watch.

"Holy crap," Puck sniggered. "Who put 'Feminists' down for 'Useless'? Because that's a winner."

Mercedes blinked in surprise when Kurt grinned and snatched the green card from the center.

"_Kurt!_" Rachel exclaimed. "That is offensive!"

"It's a _joke_, Rachel," he said, still grinning ear to ear. "Relax."

Rachel hmphed and sat back, but Mercedes frowned, scrutinizing Kurt's face. The smile hadn't entirely faded, as if it was partially glued to his mouth, and his eyes were… off. He was looking a little too closely at the other people in the room (Blaine included).

The bottom of her stomach abruptly went ice-cold.

Kurt pulled himself to his feet, announcing that he was going to get a soda refill.

"Me too," Mercedes said, quickly working her way out of the circle and following him to the kitchen.

Her heart thudding in her chest, Mercedes took a deep breath, crossing her arms instinctively in front of her abdomen. "You're not very good at this," she said, failing to completely hide the tone of anger in her voice.

Kurt only glanced over his shoulder at her for a moment, pouring a cup of orange Fanta and leaning against the counter. "Not very good at what?"

"Lying."

Kurt's eyebrows snapped together. "What are you talking about?"

"I know you're not him," Mercedes said tightly. "Whatever your name is, you're not Kurt. You're pretending."

Kurt rolled his eyes, swallowing a too-large gulp of soda. "Oh, come _on,_" he drawled. "You really think that one of my alters is _pretending_ to be me? You sure you don't need a straitjacket of your own?"

Mercedes' mouth tightened. "Did you know that Kurt hates orange soda?" she asked, her stomach flipping over and over as Kurt glared at her. "He says it rots his teeth and he hates the smell."

Kurt's lip curled, his eyes narrowing. "Fine," he said, setting the glass on the counter. A slight, barely visible smirk ghosted over his lips. "You caught me."

Mercedes swallowed, her stomach jumping again because that admission had been so much worse than the possibility of her being wrong. "How long have you been here?"

"Couple hours." He shrugged. "What are you going to do about it?" Kurt challenged, crossing his arms. He leaned in close, threatening. Far too close for comfort.

Mercedes backed up a step, looking away. "Nothing."

Kurt's brows shot up in surprise, and she hated how _hard_ his eyes were.

"I'll make a deal with you," she said, her voice wavering slightly. Kurt's eyes were piercing, and it almost physically hurt to look at him. "I won't tell anyone that you're here right now, so long as you just don't _do_ anything."

Kurt made a face. "The hell kind of deal is that supposed to be?"

"Just… please. Don't do anything. A lot of Kurt's friends are here."

"You should know by now that that doesn't mean anything to me."

She swallowed the lump in her throat. That hurt. "Well, you probably don't want to deal with Finn's mom," she amended quickly. "She's scary when she's pissed."

There was a beat, then Kurt gave a weird half-nod, his head tilting to the side. "Yeah, okay, fair point," he acquiesced. "Deal. I'll lay low."

Mercedes let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "Okay. Good."

"Let me ask you something, though," he stopped her as she turned to go back to the living room. "Why not tell anyone? I'm pretty sure you don't want to hang with me just for my winning personality." He winked.

Mercedes sighed, her lips tightening before she replied. "I just want to have a normal day with my friends," she said. "That includes Kurt."

"But Kurt's not here."

"Yeah, well, the others don't know that. And they all want the same thing."

* * *

><p>Singing karaoke and playing Apples To Apples really wasn't Santana's idea of a good party (her version would have a lot more music, a lot less singing, and a lot more alcohol and R-rated action in dark corners), but for <em>some <em>reason she was still managing to have fun.

Santana wasn't ready to admit it just yet, but _damn_,she was going to miss these people after graduation.

And she definitely wasn't ready to admit that she was probably going to miss Kurt more than anyone (besides Brittany, of course).

What? The kid was snarky and talented and occasionally conniving, all of which scored major points with Santana. (And, okay, maybe she was super worried about him too…)

Still. It was going to be hard to say goodbye.

After what was probably the fortieth round of cards (seriously, did this game _ever_ get old?), Brittany gave Santana a kiss on the cheek. "I'm going to get some popcorn," she said before standing up and heading for the kitchen. "Anyone else want some?"

"Popcorn's in the cupboard next to the stove," Finn called after her.

"I'll go help her," Kurt said, rising smoothly to his feet.

"You want us to wait for you?"

Kurt flapped a hand over his shoulder. "Nah, Blaine can cover for me."

Blaine shrugged and picked up Kurt's hand of cards from the floor as the game continued. Santana shuffled through her own hand, looking for a good match for 'Delicious', then tossed in 'Pamela Anderson'.

"Mercedes," Artie said loudly, snapping his fingers in front of Mercedes' face. "Hello? Put your card in."

Mercedes blinked, tearing her attention away from the hallway toward the kitchen. "Sorry." She shook her head and placed a card on the pile, not even sparing a glance at it to see if it matched.

Santana frowned. Why did Mercedes look like she thought a SWAT team was currently surrounding the house? Santana might have been an uncaring bitch ninety percent of the time, but at least she was intuitive.

Her train of thought was completely derailed in half a second as there was the sound of something slamming against the wall in the kitchen, closely followed by an absolutely ear-splitting scream.

Santana was running to the kitchen so fast that she didn't even remember lurching to her feet, her heartbeat thudding against her ribs and eardrums. She screeched to a halt in the kitchen door, staring at Kurt pinning Brittany against the wall with an arm across her chest. Brittany was red-faced and sobbing and _terrified_.

Santana took one look at Kurt's hand snaking into Brittany's skirt, and then she lunged.


	92. Riptide

_Riptide_

Finn was about ninety-nine percent sure that his heart had completely stopped functioning as he ran after Santana, nearly crashing into her when she skidded to a stop in front of him at the kitchen door. He'd barely absorbed the image of Kurt pressing himself against Brittany with his hand between her legs (_GOD WHAT DO I DO_) when Santana let out a hoarse screech, seizing Kurt by the back of his shirt. She ripped him away from Brittany, shoving him into the counter island so that one of the stools was knocked to the ground with a loud clatter.

Finn circled around behind them and wrapped his arms around Brittany's trembling shoulders, pulling her back toward the hallway. Her chest was heaving, the air shuddering in and out of her lungs as her fingers clutched at his waist.

"What the HELL is wrong with you?!" Santana shouted, her fists digging into Kurt's chest.

He slapped her arms away. "Get the fuck off me, bitch!"

Finn held Brittany as tightly as he dared, brushing her hair back from her tear-stained face. "Did he hurt you?" he demanded, panic clawing at the edges of his skull. "_Did he hurt you?_"

"He – he hit my—" Brittany sobbed, her palm cradling the back of her head.

Santana was still yelling, her voice cracking in her throat. "If you _EVER _touch her again, Kurt, I swear to God I'll kill you!" She slammed Kurt into the counter again.

Kurt's lip curled, and he spit in her face. "_I'm not Kurt_," he snarled.

Finn turned to the others, not caring when or why they'd followed him, and pushed Brittany into Tina's arms. "Take her to the living room," he ordered. "Go!" Tina immediately hooked an arm around Brittany's back, ushering her down the hall with Mercedes and Quinn close on their heels.

"_I DON'T CARE!_" Santana shouted, out of breath. "You just _assaulted_ my girlfriend!"

"Yeah, I can see why you like her," Kurt smirked. "Kudos."

"_SCREW YOU!_" Santana screamed, her arm pulling back for a split second before she rammed her fist into Kurt's stomach.

Finn saw Kurt's eyes narrow just in time to lurch forward, wrenching Santana backwards milliseconds before Kurt could swing his wrist up and punch her sharply in the temple. The blow landed instead on Finn's shoulder blade, the force of it sending shocks down the nerves to his fingertips as he tried to hold Santana and Kurt away from each other.

"_Back off, _Finn!" Santana shrieked, her eyes wild.

Finn struggled to keep Kurt back, raising his voice to match hers. "_He's going to hurt you!_" he yelled, not bothering to waste time sugarcoating it. Santana's jaw clacked shut. "Go take care of Brittany!"

Santana swallowed, breathing hard and staring at Kurt for a moment, then she raked both hands through her hair and ran back to the living room.

"Let me know if you ever want a threesome!" Kurt growled after her, his teeth still maliciously bared.

"Hey!" Finn snapped, roughly pushing Kurt back into the counter. "Brittany didn't do anything to you! Why would you do that?!"

Kurt's jaw clenched, his eyes boring into Finn's. "Because Kurt was _begging_ for me to stop."

Without sparing himself even a moment to think, Finn punched Kurt in the face.

(He heard Rachel scream, but there wasn't enough room in Finn's mind to pay attention to the others watching on in shock.)

Kurt's head whipped to the side with a grunt, but he seemed unfazed. "Really, Finn?" he asked flatly. "Hitting? I don't think Kurt's going to be too pleased with a black eye fucking up his perfect little twink face."

Finn punched him a second time. "_You have NO RIGHT!_" he bellowed.

"FINN!" Rachel cried from the door.

Kurt grinned, setting his shoulders back. His lip was split and there was blood on his teeth. "Hit me again."

Finn froze, his heart galloping in his chest.

"Go on," Kurt urged, his voice low. "We'll see how Papa Hummel feels about it when he hears you beat the shit out of his favorite son."

Finn's throat felt like it was ripping apart inside his neck. Burt was in Washington. Carole was out. Kurt wasn't there at all. And Finn was alone.

Taking a deep and painful breath, Finn grabbed Kurt unceremoniously by the upper arms and tried to push him toward the hall. He had to get Kurt up to his room, contain him somehow until Finn could call Carole and get her back home. But as soon as Kurt's back was no longer pressed to the counter's edge, he spun round and drove his knuckles into Finn's esophagus.

The impact was so sharp that Finn nearly doubled over and vomited onto the kitchen floor, instead gasping for air and clutching his throat. Before Kurt could move in for a second attack, Puck rushed forward and seized him from behind, keeping his arms back. Kurt's legs kicked back, trying to use his weight to offset Puck's hold, but he was smaller than Puck and it wasn't enough.

"Get your fucking hands off me, Mohawk!"

Finn coughed, the air burning as it squeezed out of his lungs. "_Shut up!_" he begged, grasping at straws. He couldn't do this. Not by himself, and not with everyone _watching him like this_.

(_WHAT DO I DO_)

Still struggling, Kurt managed to yank his left arm out of Puck's grip, letting out a harsh growl as he twisted. Finn moved quickly to stop Kurt from giving Puck's throat the same treatment, but before he could, another pair of hands shot forward and grabbed Kurt's free arm instead.

Blaine's mouth was clamped in a grim line as Kurt's head swiveled around to glare down at him, his expression somewhere between surprised that Blaine would dare throw himself into the fray and _furious_ that there was another person trying to keep him restrained.

Kurt's neck lurched forward, his face mere inches from Blaine's. "_Fuck. Off._"

Miraculously, Blaine didn't react beyond a silent bobbing of his Adam's apple, instead turning to Finn and asking, "What do we do?"

Finn let out the air trapped in his lungs. "Take him upstairs."

The rest of the kids cramping the kitchen and hallway immediately moved out of the way, filtering back into the living room. Finn, Puck, and Blaine pushed and shoved and pulled and dragged, Kurt fighting them every step of the way and spitting obscenities at the top of his lungs.

Brittany curled over and hid her face as they passed, Santana holding her tightly against her chest and running her fingers through Brittany's hair.

"Come _on_, Kurt!" Blaine cried in exasperation when they were halfway up the stairs. There were more footholds here and it was easier for Kurt to hinder them by simply digging his heels in.

"_Fuck you!_" Kurt jerked in their grasp, unable to fight all three of them at once but damn intent on trying. His eyes narrowed at Blaine. "Just because Kurt thinks you're his one and only doesn't mean that I won't _CAVE IN YOUR FUCKING SKULL!_"

Blaine flinched, then gritted his teeth and jammed his shoulder into Kurt's back, driving him to the top of the stairs and into the second floor hallway.

Finn flung open the door to Kurt's room, and the three of them shoved Kurt inside. Instinctively, Finn reached for the rope to tie the door shut, then halted as his intestines curled behind the walls of his abdomen – he couldn't leave Kurt by himself and give Truman the chance to do something to him.

"You guys have to go," Finn ordered, turning to Blaine and Puck. "Right now."

"I'm not leaving you alone with him," Puck snapped.

"Me neither," Blaine followed suit.

Finn almost let out a growl of his own. "Fine!" he said, lacking the mental space to argue with them right now. He had to manage this. He had to get Kurt to calm down enough so that he wouldn't hurt himself or anyone else again. "Just… please, get the others out of the house. And Puck—" Finn pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and tossed it to Puck before he could rush back to the group. "Call my mom."

Puck nodded once and disappeared down the stairs.

"Aww, you need Mom's help to deal with your little brother?" Kurt spat mockingly, his neck hunched.

"You're not my brother," Finn countered, his voice low and threatening.

Kurt's hands were thrown out to the sides. "_Bingo!_ We have a winner!"

Finn had to repress the urge to throw another punch aimed at Kurt's nose. Truman had spent so much energy insisting he wasn't Kurt that for him to so casually and suddenly refer to himself as such… he was taunting them, shouting that he could use Kurt's body however he wanted.

"Can't you bring Kurt back?" Blaine asked softly, trying desperately to avoid Kurt's piercing glare. "I don't know… call him or something?"

Kurt laughed, a harsh, hacking chuckle like a hyena. "You're adorable, Elijah Wood."

Finn ignored him. "I can't if he's this stressed," he told Blaine, trying to be patient and remember that Blaine didn't have nearly as much context for this as Finn did. "It doesn't work like that."

Blaine opened his mouth again, presumably to suggest another course of action, but Kurt smugly cut him off.

"And you can't tie the door shut and leave me like usual because you're scared I'll give Kurt a few more burns to remember me by."

"Like he'd have any trouble remembering," Finn snapped, his fingers twitching at his sides.

Kurt's weight shifted from foot to foot, like a Doberman pulling at its chain. "I'm touched you think I'm so memorable," he said smoothly. "What are you going to do, pat me down for cigarettes?"

"What is he talking about?" Blaine wanted to know.

"Nothing," Finn brushed him off.

Kurt grinned, a touch of excitement tugging the corners of his mouth outward in a way that didn't appear natural. "Want me to tell him?"

Something _clicked_ in the back of Finn's brain.

"I want you to _SHUT THE HELL UP!_"

Kurt's eyebrows quirked in mild surprise.

Finn let out a heavy breath, drawing a new one through clenched teeth. "After _everything_ you've done, the least you can do is shut up."

"Why don't you make me?"

Finn was only a couple of steps away; it wouldn't take much for him to just charge forward and pound his fists into Kurt's body over and over and over again until Truman was gone. It wouldn't take much.

And Finn _wanted _to.

But there was already blood on Kurt's teeth, and his eye was slowly and surely swelling blue, and Finn realized he wasn't willing to inflict any more damage.

At least, not on Kurt. Finn's frustration and rage and _terror _still boiled up in his gut and it _hurt_ and demanded to be released, so Finn lashed out and kicked the bedroom door so that it smashed backward into the wall with a violent _bang!_

And Kurt's mouth dropped open, an ear-piercing, almost unearthly scream roaring out of his chest as his spine curled and his limbs pulled inward. Finn and Blaine jumped, freezing in place. Kurt's face had shifted into something nearly unrecognizable – horrible and twisted and _in so much pain_.

"Wh-what is that?" Blaine stammered, his eyes wide and unable to look anywhere besides Kurt. "Why is he doing that?"

Puck came running back up the stairs just then, skidding to a halt behind them. "Everyone's gone and your mom is— Holy _crap_. What the hell happened?"

Kurt had sunk to an odd, hunched-over crouch on the floor, the scream having faded to a low guttural groan continuously humming in his throat. His fingertips dug into the sides of his head and his palms covered his ears. His teeth were clenched, his breath hissing unevenly through them.

Finn edged forward, the floor feeling less than solid beneath his shoes. "Red…?" he ventured, his voice wavering. He didn't know if Red was even able to respond, but Finn had to try something.

"What the…" he heard Puck mutter.

Kurt's jaw jutted forward, exposing his teeth and tightening the tendons in his neck. Finn knelt in front of him, feeling dizzy as his heart still raced inside his ribcage.

(_WHAT DO I DO_)

Kurt's breath hitched in his chest.

"Red," Finn repeated, feeling clumsy and not at all sure of anything.

Another scream ripped out of Kurt's mouth and he lashed out, his fingernails clawing across Finn's face. Finn nearly lost his balance, scrabbling back to the door and pushing Blaine and Puck into the hall. Kurt screeched, lunging after them, and Finn barely managed to yank the door shut in time, grabbing the rope off its hook and pulling it tight around the door handle.

There was an out-of-breath growl (halfway to a sob) from the other side of the door as it rattled in its frame, Kurt's arms pounding against it. Finn backed into the hallway wall, bracing himself on it as he slid to the ground with his head spinning. After a moment, Kurt's feet scraped across the floor, retreating, and the air quieted.

"…What the _hell_ was that?" Puck breathed a second later, dropping onto floor across from Finn. Blaine followed suit, looking exhausted and unable to speak.

Finn rested his head in his hands. He couldn't handle this any more. "Kurt switched again," he said, not wanting to explain any further than that.

"Your mom's on her way home," Puck offered, as if it would make the situation easier.

Finn nodded silently.

"Has… that ever happened before?" Blaine tried, hugging his knees.

Another nod. Finn didn't want to talk about this, but he didn't have any space in his head to fight them in addition to Kurt.

"We're going to stay with you 'til your mom gets here, dude," Puck promised.

Finn leaned his head back against the wall and wished that Kurt had just stayed in the hospital for good.

* * *

><p>This was probably the most fun Truman had had in ages, including the numerous nights of sneaking out and stealing Kurt's car to go pick up a few casual fucks at his favorite bars (sometimes men, sometimes women, sometimes not caring enough to double-check). And hey, what Kurt's little fuck-toy boyfriend didn't know wouldn't hurt him.<p>

But oh, _man_. Just the fact that nobody had even noticed he was there in the first place – except for the porky black chick, but whatever – was _hilarious_. Truman really hadn't given a shit one way or the other about the blonde girl in the kitchen, but Kurt had been pissing him off for way too long and listening to him scream and beg in the back of his own head as Truman felt her up was _so fucking gratifying_.

What a fucking _twink._

Not that Truman wasn't into twinks, of course. He was an open-minded guy.

But, then again… when Truman opened his eyes in Kurt's boring little dream playground and the first thing Kurt did was throw him to the ground, Truman had to admit that Kurt was going above and beyond the title of 'annoying'. This was crossing the line.

Kurt shoved Truman into the gravel near the swing set, his fists blindly pounding into Truman's chest and head and abdomen over and over again (and seriously, this kid had no fucking clue how to handle himself in a fight).

"What the _fuck_ is your problem?" Truman snarled, only to be met with a solid punch to the jaw.

"_How DARE you!_" Kurt screamed at the top of his lungs (did he _really _have to yell with his face literally inches away?) as he pinned Truman down.

And it did _not_ escape Truman's attention that, for once, Kurt was straddling him rather than the other way round.

"Why can't you just _leave me alone?!_" Kurt cried, his chest heaving.

Truman rolled his eyes. Kurt was acting like a child. "What's the matter? Afraid of a little fooling around with a girl for a change? Quit being such a fucking prude."

"_SHE was afraid of YOU!_" Kurt screeched (and okay, Truman was pretty sure this was damaging his eardrums).

Truman quirked his eyebrow. "Are you sure about that, Mr. _Me, Myself, and Irene_?" he grunted, Kurt's hands almost trying to strangle him. "'Cause I'm pretty sure that bimbo was actually scared of _you_."

Kurt's knuckles slammed into Truman's nose, making him growl in pain. _Jesus_, this kid had emotional problems.

"You _molested _her!" Kurt screamed (and volume-control problems too, apparently).

"Oh, come on!" Truman spat. Kurt was _really_ ticking him off. "Don't think I wasn't there for when you used to make out with Little Miss Malibu Barbie in sophomore year. I wasn't doing anything she didn't want."

"_THAT DOESN'T MATTER!_"

Was Kurt _crying?_ For fuck's sake, this kid was a wimp.

Truman swiped his arm across the gravel to his side until his hand closed around a rock slightly larger than his fist. "Listen, Jekyll, you're fun to have around," he said, almost smiling in amusement when Kurt's watery eyes blinked in confusion. "But you're not _that _fun."

Truman swung his hand up, and the rock collided with Kurt's temple with a resounding _crack_.

* * *

><p>Carole had been in the line at the bank when her phone had buzzed with Finn's number illuminating the screen. "Finn, I <em>will<em> get your Pop Tarts when I go shopping; please stop reminding me—"

"_Mrs. H?_"

Her heart had immediately skipped at the sound of the panicked voice on the other end of the line. "…Puck?"

"_Yeah, I, uh… Kurt's having some kind of freakout. I don't know what's going on, but you've got to come back here_," Puck had rushed, sounding terrified and slightly winded. "_Like, now._"

It took Carole an agonizingly slow twenty minutes to get back home, jumping out of her car and running into the house to find all of the kids gone. "Finn?" she called. "Kurt?" The living room was empty, the Apples To Apples cards strewn chaotically across the floor and coffee table.

Carole rushed up the stairs, stopping short when she found Finn, Blaine, and Puck all sitting on the floor in the hallway outside of Kurt's room, with Kurt's door tied tightly shut behind them.

"Oh, God…" she sighed, sinking onto her knees next to Finn. "What happened?"

Finn's face was contorted, like he was having trouble speaking and breathing at the same time. After a moment's silence, Blaine softly answered instead.

"He attacked Brittany."

Carole swallowed, running a palm over her face. "Is she okay?"

Puck scratched nervously at the nape of his neck. "She looked pretty shaken up but I don't think she got hurt."

Small miracles.

Carole put a hand on Finn's shoulder – his muscles were rigid underneath his skin. "Sweetheart, what happened? Who did he switch to?"

Finn's jaw clenched. "Truman," he replied. "Then Red."

She couldn't help glancing at the door, listening carefully for any sounds from the other side, but it was silent.

They shouldn't have listened to Kurt when he said he wanted to stay for the party. They should've sent him back to the hospital this morning like usual.

"Mom, I hit him."

Her attention snapped back to Finn. "What?"

Finn sniffed, his arms hugging his chest. "I – I hit him," he repeated, his voice cracking. "H-he… Truman kept saying all these – these things and I j-just kind of lost it and… I hit him. I'm sorry."

Carole quickly moved a little closer, wrapping an arm around Finn's shoulders. She turned to Puck and Blaine, who each looked even more lost than she was. "Boys, thank you for staying, but maybe you should head home now."

Puck coughed awkwardly, pulling himself to his feet and nudging Blaine to do the same. Carole tried to give them a smile as they walked downstairs, Blaine casting a reluctant but panicked glance over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.

"I'm sorry," Finn said again.

She should never have left them alone. They were just kids.

* * *

><p>Stars exploded in front of Kurt's eyes as the rock smashed into the side of his skull, jarring his teeth. Momentarily blinded, his shoulder crashed into the rough gravel as Truman kicked him away, and Kurt felt blood trickle into his ear. The ground spun underneath him.<p>

He spat out bits of sand and grit as he tried to dizzily sit up, blinking the shadows away from his vision just in time to see the iron crowbar in Truman's hand swing down in a deadly arc toward his head. Kurt quickly rolled out of the way, the crowbar landing with a _thunk_ in the dirt.

Before Kurt's still-reeling brain could process it, Truman was on top of him and the crowbar was pressing hard into Kurt's trachea. Truman leaned down, his entire weight braced on the iron bar and his face hovering dangerously close to Kurt's with his teeth bared. Far above them, the sky was brewing a storm, blackened clouds boiling and blocking out the sun.

Kurt's mouth opened as wide as it could, gasping for air as he felt the blood pool under his skin.

"You should have stayed in the fucking woods," Truman snarled under his breath, thunder rumbling from somewhere overhead. Rain began to patter the ground.

Kurt couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. His skin was tingling as the oxygen was slowly drained from his limbs, the edges of his vision going dark again. He reached up and pushed at Truman's chest, but the attempt to fight him off was feeble at best.

It probably wouldn't be that bad, though, he realized fleetingly in the back of his mind. If he were to wake up in the woods again, and just… stay there. He wouldn't hurt anyone else then. At least, he didn't think…

There wasn't enough oxygen left in his brain to finish that thought.

A small rock suddenly flew from outside Kurt's shrinking visual field and struck Truman in the side of the neck, immediately followed by a crisp shout of "_Hey!_"

Truman's attention whipped up and away from Kurt.

"Leave him alone!"

Kurt sucked in a desperate gasp of air as the crowbar was abruptly lifted, the lack of oxygen and Truman's weight on top of him still keeping him mostly immobile. The rain was coming down harder, soaking into his hair and clothes and pooling beneath him.

"Let the grown-ups talk, Zack," Truman said lowly, his lip curled. He turned back to Kurt, pressing the bar down on top of the already-formed bruise on Kurt's neck (Kurt could only let out a strangled gurgle).

Another rock smacked Truman in the ribs, making him growl in frustration (the crowbar once again lifted). "Zack, I will fucking _burn_ you if—"

"_Leave. Him. Alone._"

Zack was standing only a few feet away, his fists clenched and his clothes already soaked from the rain. Lightning flashed across the sky overhead.

"Zack, what are you doing?" Eleanor called from behind him. She looked… frightened. Tyler was hugging her side, Robbie standing nearby and watching anxiously.

"Take the toddler back to daycare," Truman spat, gesturing angrily to Zack.

Before Truman could do anything else, Kurt thrust his arms upwards and shoved Truman off him, the movement sloppy and uncoordinated since he was still dizzy and breathing too hard. Truman caught himself on one hand, the other snapping the crowbar back and landing another blow to the side of Kurt's skull. Kurt yelped, clutching his head as his nerve endings were set on fire.

"_LEAVE HIM ALONE!_" Zack screamed.

Kurt coughed, wincing, and opened his eyes just in time to see Zack launch himself at Truman, tackling him on the ground and beating him with hysterical thrashes. Eleanor shrieked and ran towards them, calling Zack's name.

Another crack of thunder shook the playground, causing the swing chains to rattle.

"_Zack, don't!_" Eleanor shouted.

Kurt staggered to his feet, wanting to vomit. He knew he had to pull Zack away, but with blood dripping down to his shoulder from the wound on his head, it was difficult to keep the earth steady beneath his feet.

Kurt heard the _crack_ before he understood what happened.

Truman's hands had found their mark, twisting with a single deft wrench of his arms, and Zack fell backward onto the gravel, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. The air rushed from Kurt's lungs, his heart coming to a full stop.

"_ZACK!_" Eleanor screamed. Kurt could hear Tyler crying.

Truman glared at Kurt as he stood over Zack's crumpled body, the wind whipping at their clothes as the rain came down in sheets. "Sorry, Kurt," he shrugged. He shouted to be heard over the storm. "Game's over!"

_Rage_, more than he'd ever felt before, boiled up in Kurt's stomach, pulling all of his muscles taut inside his skin. His eyes landed on the crowbar, lying only a couple feet away. Truman had dropped it during Zack's assault, and now, Kurt made a lunge for it.

Truman saw what he was doing and scrambled to grab it first, but Kurt's fists closed around the bar and thrust upward, jabbing the sharp end threateningly into Truman's stomach. A bolt of lightning tore across the clouds.

"Get on your knees," Kurt growled.

A muscle in Truman's jaw twitched, his eyes darkening. "I think we're a little past the point of friendly blowjobs, don't you?" he sneered.

Kurt lifted the crowbar over his head, poised to bring it down on Truman's skull. "_On your knees!_"

Truman had the nerve to smile then, his eyebrows raised. "Or what?"

Kurt answered him by breaking his collarbone.

* * *

><p>With her breath held in her lungs, Carole bit her lip, untying the rope from Kurt's bedroom door. She'd sent Finn downstairs (he'd dealt with enough for today), and despite the fact that she was terrified of Red, she had to at least make sure that Kurt wasn't physically hurt. Her heartbeat thudding solidly in her eardrums, Carole pushed the door open, stepping into the room to find that Kurt had pressed himself into the corner beneath the window.<p>

"Sweetheart?" she called softly, not wanting to startle him.

Kurt had folded himself as tightly and rigidly as possible, his knees drawn up to his chest and his shoulder hugging the wall. His breathing was hitched and at an oddly rapid pace, quick and uneven as if there was a dangerous amount of adrenaline coursing through his veins. There was a dark bruise that had formed over his eye and some of his cheek, and his lower lip was swollen after having been split.

He didn't look up as she knelt beside him, and even though his eyes were wide, she wasn't sure he could see her.

"Kurt…" she whispered. "Sweetie, can you hear me?"

Praying for some sign that he would respond, Carole reached out to tentatively touch his knee.

A low growl hissed through Kurt's teeth, his lips pulling back and his muscles stiffening under Carole's fingers. She quickly drew her hand back.

Swallowing and bracing her jaw against a sudden onset of tears, her throat aching and her eyesight blurring, Carole sat back on her heels. She drew a breath as deeply as she could, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand, then exhaled and set her shoulders back.

"I love you," she said, forcing down the rock in her esophagus. "I'll be right downstairs when you wake up."

Steeling herself, Carole stood back up and left Kurt where he was. She watched him for a moment longer than necessary before closing the door and re-tying the rope around the handle.

* * *

><p>Kurt felt drunk, dizzy, and way, way out of control. He was acting purely on instinct now, his body doing all the work for him as the crowbar cracked down again and again and again, beating Truman into the ground. Kurt was seethingly angry and unsteady, and there was a frightening amount of strength in each of his blows as the thunder continued to roll through the black clouds.<p>

Truman had curled with his arms protecting his head, the rest of him a bloody mess. His collarbone was snapped, along with at least two of his ribs, and his clothes were torn and stained red in splotches.

Every time the crowbar connected with easily damaged flesh with a _crunch_, Kurt wanted Truman to physically feel and be unable to run away from the horrible, agonizing, _disgusting_ pain he'd inflicted on every single person he'd met inside and outside of this body.

_Crunch_. That one was for Brittany. _Crunch. _For Mercedes. _Crunch. _For Santana. _Crunch_. Rachel. Blaine. Craig. _Crunch_. Carole. Finn. Zack. Dad.

The sound of the crowbar tearing Truman's skin apart was so loud in Kurt's ears that he didn't even realize he was screaming, his lungs almost ripping in two until, at long last, he couldn't anymore. His arm dropped to his side in exhaustion, the bloodied iron dragging across the gravel. Some of the blood was washed off by the rain, turning the pebbles red.

Truman coughed, red spattering the ground beneath his head, and Kurt stood slumped and breathing hard. He was tired. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Eleanor and Robbie watching him in shock, Tyler clutching Eleanor's waist with one arm and Raleigh with the other.

Kurt exhaled heavily, still winded. He gestured to Truman. "Grab him," he ordered.

None of them moved.

"Eleanor. Robbie." Kurt nodded more pointedly to Truman, who was still lying on his side and trying to breathe through the broken ribs. "_Grab him_."

Eleanor gave Tyler a squeeze around the shoulders, then followed Robbie and reached down to gingerly grasp Truman's shoulder. "_Jesus_, Kurt," she said quietly, her hands instantly stained bright red.

She and Robbie pulled Truman up onto his knees, making him growl in pain. There was a wet rattle in Truman's chest, and Kurt was fairly sure the lungs had been punctured, but he couldn't exactly say he was worried about that.

"What the _fuck_ are you going to do, huh?" Truman spat, his words a little slurred through the blood trickling from the corners of his mouth. He struggled against Robbie and Eleanor's grip. "You don't have the _balls_, asshole. You came back _weeks_ ago and you haven't done shit. You're _weak_!"

"I made you a promise," Kurt said lowly, ignoring the curling of his gut as he reached forward, digging around in Truman's jeans pocket and pulling out a lighter. He left the crowbar discarded on the ground. "And now I'm following through."

Truman spat a dollop of blood onto the ground at Kurt's feet. "_Fuck_ you," he snarled.

Kurt only flicked the lighter, holding the flame in his hand. The rain didn't douse it – didn't even touch it. "You killed Craig," Kurt said. "And Zack. I can kill you."

Truman grinned, his teeth cracked and slick with red. "You think it's that easy?"

"You're not real."

Kurt grabbed Truman by the hair, wrenching his head back to expose the soft underside of his jaw, and he let the flame lick across the skin. Truman twitched as it bit into him, blistering and angry red, but Kurt didn't let up. Truman's nostrils flared, his jaw clenching and unclenching as Eleanor and Robbie held him down.

A strange calm settled over Kurt like a wave as he watched the patch of Truman's skin burn and crack and, slowly, turn black like charcoal.

_Wait…_

There was an abrupt and pungent stench of grilling meat, tendrils of smoke curling up. Truman's flesh was charred, little by little by little.

_Just wait…_

And, finally, Truman seemed to lose a battle with himself, his twisted face snapping, giving way, and his mouth dropping open to scream. He writhed, his feet kicking up the gravel as he desperately tried to pull away despite the broken bones grating in his torso. His spine bent and turned, his screams growing louder and louder until they echoed across the playground.

Thunder trembled through the air, lightning shooting down to stab the dirt a few yards away.

Kurt took his hand away, Truman's body thrashing in Robbie and Eleanor's grip. The fire was burning on its own now, moving across Truman's skin like paper held over a candle, and Truman was still howling as it rapidly ate across his chest, arms, down his torso, up to his ears. Robbie and Eleanor dropped their hold before the fire could singe their fingertips, quickly backing away. Truman collapsed on the gravel, the flames surging up and erupting from his back almost like wings. Before long, his entire body was engulfed, the fire roaring and ripping down to his bones.

As the rain continued to beat the ground around him, Kurt exhaled slowly and sank down to sit cross-legged, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes. Truman had stopped screaming.

Kurt watched until the finally fire died away, leaving nothing behind.

* * *

><p>Eventually, the rain petered out, leaving the playground half-flooded. The clouds kept rolling across the sky, thunder constantly rumbling in the distance, and Kurt remained sitting on the ground by the swings with his head in his hands, too weary to move. Zack was still lying splayed on the gravel where he'd fallen, his eyes open and his body half submerged in a puddle.<p>

"Kurt?"

Kurt glanced up to see Eleanor standing next to him. She was holding the still-bloody crowbar in her hand. "Where's Tyler?" he asked.

"I told Robbie to watch him." She sat down beside him, resting the crowbar on her knees. "Are you all right?"

Kurt nodded, staring at the place where Truman had burned into nothing. "Yeah," he said. "I think I am."

Eleanor's mouth pressed into a thin line, her chin trembling slightly. She looked… afraid. Kurt was about to ask her what was wrong, but before he could, she took a deep breath and placed the crowbar in his hands.

"Kill me," she said.

Kurt dropped the bar like it was on fire. "What? No."

She grabbed it again and pushed it back into his lap, her eyes threatening to overflow. "Do it. Please, you have to."

"No!" Kurt argued, quickly lurching to his feet and stepping back. "Do _not_ make me do this."

Eleanor's teeth clenched, rage seeping into her voice as her fingers curled into fists. "You don't have a choice!" she cried, tears already spilling down her cheeks. "You have to kill us!"

"I'm _more_ than this!" Kurt shouted, his heart desperately racing in his chest. "I'm more than you!"

"No, you're _not!_" Eleanor insisted, sobbing now. "Until you get better and get rid of _all_ of us, you'll never be anything more than a _piece_!" She was on her knees on the wet gravel, her lungs heaving. She was begging. "If you want to be more than a 'we', you have to kill us. Otherwise, you'll be stuck like this for the rest of your life."

Kurt shook his head. This was way too much; he couldn't do this. He was going to be sick.

"You said it yourself!" Eleanor cried, her voice breaking. "We are a _disease_! Your white blood cells aren't going to kick us in the ass for you – _you_ have to do it. So take the crowbar and _kill me_."

The breath rushed out of Kurt's chest, his heartbeat thudding in his ears and fingertips. She was right. He knew she was.

Unable to breathe, Kurt reached down and picked up the crowbar, his fingers tightening around the cold iron. Eleanor closed her eyes tight, and Kurt raised it over his shoulder, bracing himself to bring it down on her head.

He had to do this. One blow – maybe two – to the right spot, and Eleanor would be gone. She'd never scream and swear at Kurt's family again. She'd never cut his hair. She'd never fight with him. She wasn't going to fight him now.

Kurt's hands were shaking.

His eyes flickered to Zack's body, neck twisted like a rag doll discarded on a dirty street.

The crowbar dropped, falling harmlessly to the ground by Kurt's feet with a _thunk_. Eleanor's eyes snapped open.

"I… I can't," Kurt said.

Eleanor gritted her teeth, snatching the crowbar and pulling herself to her feet. "_Kill me_," she pressed, trying to shove it back into Kurt's hands.

Kurt only shook his head, refusing to take it. "No."

"You have to!"

"_I CAN'T!_" Kurt shouted, his heart twisting between his lungs.

"Why not?!"

Kurt opened his mouth to answer, but his words died in his throat. He blinked back a sudden rush of tears, his jaw tightening, and his hands raked through his hair. This was too much.

"H-How am I supposed to live without you?" Kurt asked, because he genuinely didn't know. "How am I supposed to function? I don't want to be alone!" A sob wrenched out of his chest. "I don't want there to be nothing but space in my head!"

"Having us here is _worse!_" Eleanor yelled hoarsely. "You can't control us!"

"_YOU ARE ME!_" Kurt screamed, feeling dizzy and sick and like the earth was crumbling underfoot. "I don't want to die!"

Eleanor stopped short, staring at him.

"I'm sorry, I… I can't."

The corners of her mouth pulled tight as she collected herself, a few stray tears making their way down her cheeks. "Fine," she snapped, throwing the crowbar to the ground. "Fine."

Without another word, she walked away and left Kurt desperately, painfully alone.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: One more chapter and an epilogue to go, folks.**


	93. Come War, Come Hell, Come What May

_Come War, Come Hell, Come What May_

Hours passed, and there was no sound from inside Kurt's room. Finn had helped Carole clean up the living room and the kitchen from the chaos left behind by the afterparty, and then excused himself so that he wouldn't have to listen to the phone conversation when she called Burt to let him know what happened. Retreating to his bedroom, Finn shut the door behind him and collapsed onto his bed, far too tired for this early in the evening.

Come to think of it, it was probably a mistake to be in a quiet room by himself now, with Brittany's scream echoing in his head over and over again. He felt frustrated and exhausted and guilty and hurt, and it was all making him sick.

He just wanted to plug his ears and block out _everything_.

There was no way to fix this.

His cell phone buzzed on his bedside table, and he huffed before picking it up, fairly sure that he didn't have the physical space in his head to deal with everyone else's prying questions about Kurt.

_Is Kurt going back to the hospital?_

Finn frowned. The text was from Blaine, and it was a little odd that he wasn't asking if Kurt was all right. Then again, Finn supposed it was pretty damn obvious that Kurt wasn't and wouldn't be. At least for a long time.

_tomorrow morning_, he texted back.

Blaine never responded to that.

Staring at his ceiling, Finn finally sighed and scrolled through his phone contacts until he found Santana's number, swallowing as he pressed the call button.

"_What do you want, Frankenteen?_"

Finn's mouth suddenly went dry. "I just… wanted to call and see if Brittany was okay," he stammered lamely. "Is she?"

Santana wasted no time with a blunt answer. "_Your stepbrother practically raped her, Finn. She's not okay._"

Finn cringed reflexively. "I – I know, I'm sorry."

"_Shut up, I know it's not your fault,_" Santana snapped.

"Well… if there's anything I can do, just – let me know?" he said, resisting the urge to argue that it wasn't really Kurt's fault either.

"_We're good,_" Santana replied, her voice tight and guarded.

"Okay. I, uh… I'll see you at school."

"_Wait, Finn—_" she stopped him before he could hang up.

"Yeah?"

"_You can tell Kurt that if he ever comes near Brittany again, I snap his neck._"

The line clicked and went dead.

* * *

><p>When Kurt woke up, he was crouched in the corner of his room, his calves and knees burning from the exertion of being cramped in the same position for however long he'd been out of it. Drawing a deep breath, Kurt winced as he sat back against the wall underneath his window, stretching out his legs and gritting his teeth as he massaged his sore muscles.<p>

He craned his neck to get a better view of the alarm clock on his bedside table, relieved when it told him only a few hours had passed since the last thing he could remember.

A wave of nausea slammed into him like a brick wall as Brittany's face flashed in front of his eyes, and he had to stop himself from breathing for a full minute so he wouldn't vomit.

Fighting tears, Kurt rose slowly to his feet, hissing through his teeth as his sore legs protested. He braced an arm against the windowsill to take some of the weight off until his circulation was restored, watching the evening light gradually fade outside. The sky was streaked with vibrant reds and purples and blues and oranges, an early summer breeze ruffling the leaves of Carole's rosebushes, and it was… strangely calming.

Kurt didn't think he'd heard a silence quite like this in his life.

His chest felt tight.

Turning his eyes away from the world outside, Kurt crossed his floor and reached for the door handle. He knew before he twisted it that the rope was holding the door shut, and was horribly unsurprised when it wouldn't give. "Hello?" he called, banging the side of his fist against the door. "Carole? Finn?"

He couldn't hear anything from the hallway or from downstairs.

"Hello?"

Patting his jeans pockets only to find them empty, he scanned the room for his cell phone, hoping it would be somewhere where he could get it. Yet another reason to hate the alters – they liked to mess with his stuff. He eventually found the phone lying a few inches out of sight beneath his bed (it must have fallen from his pocket and been kicked under) and quickly punched out a text to Finn.

_Are you going to let me out?_

Kurt held his breath, praying Finn would answer.

His phone buzzed.

_coming_

The door handle squeaked a moment later as the rope was unwound from the other side, and the door swung open.

"…Hey," Kurt said.

Finn flinched slightly as his eyes traveled over Kurt's face, taking in the bruise and the swollen lip. "Hey." There was an agonizingly tense pause, and then Finn swallowed. "Well, you're free," he stated, then turned to leave.

"W-Wait, Finn—" Kurt took a step after him.

Finn stopped, waiting for Kurt to speak.

"Is Brittany okay?"

Finn blanched, but it was barely visible. "You remember that?"

Kurt nodded silently.

Looking down for a second, Finn's fingers twitched before he replied. "I talked to Santana earlier. She'll be all right."

Something flitted over Finn's face, but Kurt couldn't quite tell what it was. "Good," he said softly. "I, uh… I don't suppose you could tell her I'm sorry?"

Finn's mouth tightened. "I could, but Kurt… I'll be honest; she's never going to want to see you again. Santana too."

A rock ground against the walls of Kurt's throat. "I know. But tell her anyway?"

"Okay," Finn nodded. "And I'm… sorry about your face, by the way. Things got a little crazy with Truman."

Kurt shrugged. "Someone had to punch him in the face. I'm glad it was you."

Finn let out a strained, rough chuckle. "You think you'll be okay?"

Kurt crossed his arms protectively over his chest, which felt a little like it was shredding itself from the inside. "I don't know," he said, staring at the floor. "Seems pretty unlikely, doesn't it?"

Finn was quiet.

"Does your silence mean you agree?" Kurt forced out in a nervous laugh, his arms tightening over his torso.

"I'm just scared for you, Kurt," Finn said, leaning back against the corridor wall. "I hate that you're like this because it's not your fault and you shouldn't have to be so _stuck_."

Kurt let out a long, shaky exhale. "Yeah, well… what's done is done," he muttered.

"Oh, come on, Kurt," Finn protested. "Why are you acting like you've got terminal cancer or something? You can still beat this thing."

Kurt didn't say anything, partly because he didn't really know how he was supposed to respond, but mostly because he didn't believe Finn and he didn't have a lie of agreement ready.

"I have an idea," Finn said abruptly, then turned to head down the stairs. "Come on, dude."

Kurt frowned in confusion, but followed Finn down to the living room. Finn snatched a notepad and pen off of Carole's desk in the corner and plopped onto the couch.

"What are you doing?" Kurt asked suspiciously, standing uncertainly off to the side.

"Sit down," Finn urged. "I'm not doing anything. _You_ are figuring out everything you want to do after all your crap is under control – which it will be eventually – and then we're going to write all of those things down."

Kurt stared at him. "…Why?"

"Would you just trust me on this?"

"Fine," Kurt huffed, sinking into the armchair to Finn's right. "What, um… what do you want me to do?"

Finn shrugged. "I don't know. This doesn't have anything to do with me; it's your choice. What's something you've always wanted to do?"

Kurt thought for a minute, chewing on the insides of his cheeks. "Travel, I guess. I want to go to France and England. Anywhere in Europe, really."

"Awesome," Finn smiled, tearing a strip of paper off the notepad and scrawling across it. He folded it in half and dropped it on the coffee table. "What else?"

"Perform in a leading role on Broadway," Kurt said.

"I'm actually kind of amazed you didn't say that one first," Finn remarked, scribbling it down. Another folded piece of paper was dropped on the table.

Kurt suppressed a smile at that, still not sure why he was going along with this. Whatever this was. He didn't know what the hell Finn was trying to accomplish.

"What else?" Finn pressed.

"I want to get a 1967 Pontiac GTO."

Finn's eyebrows climbed upwards. "You want a what?"

Kurt leaned back in his chair, folding one leg so his ankle rested under his other knee. "It's a classic muscle car. I want to buy one and rebuild the engine."

"Seriously? You?"

Kurt gave him a look. "I might enjoy fashion and female-oriented TV, but I'm still a mechanic's son and I love cars. Why do you think I had the Navigator?"

Finn snorted. "When you do get it, you and me should take a road trip. It'd be fun."

Kurt blinked, his head tilting to the side in surprise. "Write that down."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, sounds great."

A wide grin spread across Finn's face. "Awesome. It's a plan."

Kurt swallowed. "Is that what all of these are supposed to be? Plans?"

"Yep," Finn said, ripping the most recent page off the pad and adding it to the pile. "You're going to think of as many as you can, then we'll put them in a jar, and they'll all be waiting for you when you're ready."

"I don't understand…" Kurt admitted, his stomach squirming. "Why are we doing this?"

Finn sighed, his pen resting on top of the notepad. "We're always spending so much _energy_ on you, Kurt."

…Okay, that hurt.

"We're always worried about you and trying to get you better and trying to keep the alters from destroying all this crap," Finn continued, not noticing that Kurt's muscles had gone rigid. "But none of us – including you – ever take a second to think what it might be like once you _are_ better."

Kurt kept his mouth shut, his tongue clamped between his teeth.

"I mean… do you even think about that?" Finn asked, his tone oddly quiet.

It was a long minute before Kurt worked up the courage to reply, picking at his nails. "I try not to."

"Why?"

"_Because_, Finn—" Kurt shook his head. "It's exhausting. Going to college, getting a job, getting married, having a kid – or at least being stable enough to know that it's a possibility – all those things that are _normal_… Just the idea of getting out of my own head feels like it's never going to happen and I _don't want_ to keep hurting myself by imagining some kind of fantasy life."

"Who says it's just a fantasy?" Finn argued.

Kurt huffed, raking a hand through his hair.

"You see? You're _stuck_, and I don't get why you're not willing to try anything and everything to get _un_stuck. If you don't have something to look forward to, Kurt, then how the hell are you ever going to get out of this?"

Kurt swallowed, feeling his chin tremble slightly. He sniffed, swiping the back of his hand over his eyes. "You're right," he conceded, trying to push away the nerve-wracking panic worming its way through his intestines. "You're right."

Finn nodded. "Yes, I am," he said. "So, what else do you want to do?"

Kurt sat up with a cough, squaring his shoulders and forcing everything back – all the fear and apprehension and frustration. He would deal with all of that later.

"I want to convince Mr. Schue to never rap again," he said, driving a smile onto his face.

Finn snorted and added it to the pile.

* * *

><p>Kurt went to bed early with a headache gnawing on his brain. Finn had found a large clamp-lid jar in the kitchen that wasn't being used and together they had shoved the pile of paper slips into it, filling it halfway and snapping the lid tightly shut. Kurt had then placed the jar on an empty spot on the shelf by the TV, chewing his lip and staring at it for several seconds before Carole called for dinner. Kurt was hungry, but he still felt like his insides were churning and he wasn't willing to eat just yet.<p>

Flopping onto his bed upstairs and refusing to turn any of the lights in his room on, Kurt lay there in the dark and prayed that his stomach would settle.

It was quiet. Too quiet, like just after a storm had passed.

Kurt didn't trust it.

He didn't know how long he'd just laid there waiting for sleep when there was a soft knock on the door. "Kurt, sweetie?" Carole called gently, leaning her head into the room. Kurt twisted around to look at her. "Your dad's on the phone."

Kurt immediately sat up, and Carole stepped over to hand him the cordless. She planted a kiss on his head before bidding him a good night and promising to see him in the morning. The door shut again behind her.

"_Hey, kiddo,_" Burt greeted him, somehow sounding sad and hopeful at the same time. "_How're you feeling?_"

"Like crap," Kurt answered, tugging on a loose thread on the knee of his pajama pants. He leaned back against the headboard.

There was a mumbled noise of agreement from the other end. "_Carole told me what happened._"

Kurt's insides clenched, a rock settling into his esophagus.

"_I'm sure Bethany will be fine._"

"Brittany, Dad," Kurt couldn't help correcting him.

"_Right._"

The silence seeped into the air again, dragging its fingers down Kurt's shoulders and making him shiver.

"_Are you okay?_"

Kurt's lungs abruptly recoiled inside his ribcage, his eyesight blurring. "…No," he admitted, his voice thick and thin and stretched out all at once. He clamped his free hand over his mouth, preventing himself from breathing, and pulled his legs up to his chest.

"_I'm really sorry this happened,_" Burt said softly.

Kurt couldn't hold his breath for very long, and his lungs betrayed him, forcing out a shuddering sob from between his teeth.

"_Talk to me, Kurt. Please._"

Wiping his face on his pajama sleeve, Kurt coughed, inhaling sharply. "I-I, um…" he tried.

There was a staticky breath on the other end. "_Kurt, please be honest with me…_" Burt started, his tone heavy as iron. "_Are you having suicidal thoughts again?_"

Kurt bit his lip, attempting to swallow around the boulder in his throat. "I don't want to die…" he said.

"_Okay._" Burt sounded like he didn't entirely believe Kurt, but he was relieved just the same. "_Okay, good._"

"I just, um…" Kurt started again, tugging more anxiously at the loose thread on his knee. Every part of him felt like it was shaking on a cellular level. "…I'm just kind of feeling like it'd be better if I did."

Burt didn't say anything for a long time. Kurt's hand tightened around the phone, and he tried not to listen to his heartbeat pulsing surely through his ears.

"_Tell you what, kiddo,_" Burt broke the quiet suddenly after several lengthy seconds. "_This Saturday I'm going to drive down to Athens and get you a day pass, and then you and me are going to find some cheap little diner in town, and we're going to eat the cheesiest, most fattening food on the menu._"

Kurt blinked in the dark, his eyes still burning. "Dad, what are you talking about?" He hiccoughed. "You can't eat stuff like that."

"_For one day, I'm not going to worry about that,_" Burt countered fiercely, cutting him off. "_And you're not going to worry about the alters. We're going to have a goddamn _great_ father-son day like all the rest of the normal families out there._"

A choked-off laugh jumped from Kurt's throat, his eyesight blurring again. "I wonder was normal feels like…" he mused aloud, sniffing.

"_Boring as hell, probably._"

Another laugh, hoarser than the last, made Kurt's esophagus ache.

"_You think you can hold out until then?_" Burt asked, his tone softening.

Kurt drew a deep breath through his nose, letting it out through his mouth. "Yeah, I think so."

"_Great. And afterwards, you'll just hold out until the next Saturday, and the next, and the next, and you'll just take it one week at a time until you don't have to any more._"

Kurt held the phone tightly to his ear, the skin prickling beneath his anchor tattoo like the ink was trying to remind him it was there. His insides were no longer twisting in his gut.

"I love you, Dad," Kurt said, wrapping his free arm around his legs.

"_I love you too, Kurt. Get some rest._"

Kurt fell asleep with his fingers still clutching the phone.

* * *

><p>Blaine spent the night tossing, tangled in his bed sheets and unable to sleep. It was too quiet in his room, but even plugging in his iPod and drowning out the silence with angry music didn't help. His mind was spinning, his brain heating up in his head, and after everything that had happened at Kurt's house he just wanted to lay still and <em>sleep<em>.

But every time he shut his eyes, all he could see was Kurt's face looming inches away with his features distorted. All he could hear was the rattling of the door as Kurt pounded against it, shrieking to be let out.

Eventually, the sky outside faded from black to grey, and the early morning sunlight spilled into Blaine's room. He shut his alarm clock off ten minutes before it was set to ring, took a shower hot enough to scald him, and got dressed in a daze, his brain prickling from exhaustion. His eyelids scraped across his pupils like sandpaper.

"You're up early," his mother commented as he sat down to breakfast.

He made a grunt of agreement in his throat, too tired to think a response beyond that.

"Well, your dad's still upstairs," she said, sitting at the table with a mug of tea.

Blaine yawned, stirring his coffee and trying to keep his eyes open.

"Are you not eating?" she asked, watching him a little too closely for comfort.

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat something, Bumble."

Blaine said nothing, sipping his coffee and keeping his gaze locked on the table.

"Is this about what happened at Kurt's yesterday?"

He nearly choked, blinking in surprise. He hadn't told her anything; maybe Finn's mom had called the house? "I-I didn't…" he stammered.

"Blaine, I'm not stupid," his mother said flatly. "You came home yesterday and you looked like you'd seen a ghost."

Blaine swallowed, his fingers wrapping around each other.

"What's going on?" she pressed.

"Kurt's going back to the hospital this morning," he admitted, studying the details of the stitching on the tablecloth.

"I thought he was already in the hospital."

"I mean… I don't think they're going to let him out again for awhile," Blaine amended, feeling sick. He took another gulp of coffee, but it only succeeded in making him feel even worse.

"Because of what happened at the party?"

Blaine nodded, and she was quiet for a long time. His fingers clutched the warm ceramic of his coffee mug, bracing for… however she was going to react.

"Blaine, if he's leaving, you should probably go talk to him before you lose your chance."

For the second time, he blinked in bewilderment. He didn't know what reaction he'd been expecting, but that was not it. "I…" he started. "I thought you told me to stay away from him."

She let out a sigh, brushing her hair back. "I just wanted you to be safe is all, Blaine." She gave him a smile. "Besides, since when did that stop you?"

Blaine stared at her.

She nodded toward the front door. "Go on."

He barely had time to thank her before he ran out the door, grabbing his car keys on the way.

* * *

><p>Kurt hefted his duffel bag over his shoulder as he followed Carole down the porch steps to the van sitting in the driveway, glancing up at the clear sky and allowing the early summer air to fill his lungs, the sunlight soaking into his skin. Finn had already said his goodbyes and left for school, promising to visit soon, so it would just be Carole bringing Kurt back to Athens. But as much as he wanted Finn and Burt to both come along, he was relieved to realize that… he didn't feel like he <em>needed<em> them to be there.

"Ready, sweetie?" Carole asked him as he shoved his duffel into the trunk.

He nodded. "Yeah, I'm good," he replied, and for the first time in what felt like years, it was an honest response.

Carole squeezed his hand and was about to walk over to the driver's side of the car, but a sedan suddenly pulled to a crooked stop by the curb in front of their lawn. Kurt's heart lurched when Blaine jumped out, leaving the engine running as he jogged toward them.

"Kurt!" he called.

Carole patted Kurt's shoulder and climbed into the car, silently giving them their space.

"Blaine?" Kurt took a step toward him as Blaine nearly skidded to a stop in front of him.

"Hey," he said, slightly out of breath.

Kurt's eyebrows knitted together. "What are you doing here?"

Blaine shifted from foot to foot, running a hand over his hair. "I just… wanted to see you before you left."

"Why?" Kurt's throat was suddenly burning, the pit of his stomach ice cold. "I thought you never wanted to see me again."

"That's not true," Blaine insisted with a shake of his head.

"It's not?"

Blaine's mouth clamped shut for a moment, but his eyes remained locked on Kurt's face, finally looking without avoiding. "I…" he started. "I miss you."

Kurt didn't respond immediately, the simple statement somehow carrying _so_ much more weight in the present tense. He swallowed. "I miss you too."

Blaine's Adam's apple bobbed up and down, his jaw anxiously biting the insides of his cheeks. "When you get back, let me know, okay?"

"Okay."

Catching Kurt completely by surprise, Blaine abruptly leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Kurt's shoulders in a painfully familiar embrace. And yet, at the same time, it was horribly different from before. Kurt returned the gesture, his fingers pressing into Blaine's shoulder blades as Blaine rested his chin on Kurt's collarbone, their arms clutching each other as if they hadn't met in decades. Kurt knew it would never go back to the way things were before – it would never be _familiar_ again, not for them – and the fact that he'd known it for ages sat heavily in his blood.

Taking a deep breath and trying (and failing) to ignore the warm smell of Blaine's raspberry hair gel, Kurt felt the ice in his stomach crack as he pulled out of Blaine's arms. He held onto Blaine's shoulders for a second longer than necessary, looking him straight in the eye.

"Goodbye, Blaine."

And then Kurt let go without sparing himself any time to see Blaine's reaction, turning and walking as quickly as he could to the car. He climbed in beside Carole, leaving Blaine standing in the middle of their front lawn. Carole guided the van out of the driveway without a word.

As they drove down the street, Kurt couldn't help watching in the rearview mirror until Blaine had disappeared.

* * *

><p><em><strong>It's dangerous to confuse children with angels.<br>Magnolia**_


	94. Epilogue: Hiding In The Secret Skyline

_Epilogue_

_Hiding In The Secret Skyline_

_December 12th, 2026_

Light flurries of snow swirl through the air as Blaine comes up onto the sidewalk from the subway tunnel, bag slung over one shoulder and a to-go coffee in his hand. He checks his watch to make sure he isn't late and heads for his usual shortcut through Times Square. With Christmas only two weeks away, the city is glowing everywhere one can look – red and green lights decorate every tree and every storefront offers festive sales. This year, Blaine is going to Wyoming to spend the holidays with his boyfriend's family (which is nerve-wracking since Roger's family owns a ranch and Roger has warned him that they're excited to see all the things his "prep-school ass" doesn't know how to do). But for now, both he and Roger are tied to the show.

Scratching at his short beard (which he isn't allowed to shave, since the director he's working with thinks it adds to his character's image) Blaine checks his watch again, more out of habit than actual anxiety. He knows he has plenty of time to get to the theater without the hair and makeup staff throwing a fit. As he skirts around the base of the infamous Times Square Christmas tree, he gazes up towards the tree's tip, feeling dwarfed by the sheer number of lights that sparkle brightly even in the daytime.

Unfortunately, walking through Times Square without watching the path ahead – especially any time in the vicinity of Christmas – usually ends in a collision, and it's only a couple of seconds before Blaine crashes into someone standing at the base of the tree. His coffee spills backwards over his own hand and sleeve, burning him.

"Oh, _crap_, I'm sorry, I wasn't— _Ow_," Blaine stammers, trying to wipe the hot coffee off his skin.

"Don't worry about it," the victim of his inattentiveness replies, adjusting his coat, which luckily has been spared of any coffee stains. "You okay?"

Blaine freezes mid-nod, staring at the man's face. "…_Finn?!_"

The man blinks. His jaw bears a five o'clock shadow and he's aged quite a bit, but Blaine is certain.

"…Um," says Finn, clearly trying to figure out whether Blaine is actually someone he knows or just one of New York's countless homeless crazy people. Then he blinks again, his jaw dropping. "Holy _crap_," he says. "Blaine?!"

"What are you doing here?" Blaine exclaims. "Last I heard you were going to Ohio State. God, it's been what, fifteen years?"

"Something like that," Finn grins. "I didn't recognize you with the beard, man."

Blaine shrugs and explains that he has to keep the scruff for work, rubbing at his chin self-consciously. He can't blame Finn for not recognizing him immediately – not only does he have facial hair, but he's gotten over his obsession with hair gel and his hair now sits messily on top of his head in a free-ish tangle most days.

"I'm just in town to see a couple shows," Finn explains. "Kind of a Christmas present for my wife and, uh…" He trails off for a second, then shakes his head and shrugs. "Well, it's nice to get back to Broadway, even if it's just watching."

"You're married? To… Rachel?" Blaine remembers that Finn and Rachel had gotten engaged shortly after they graduated high school, but it had ended in tears before they'd gotten a chance to even consider a date for the ceremony. Rachel had moved out to Los Angeles and had been in a few TV shows but Blaine hadn't been in contact with her since high school.

Finn snorts and shakes his head. "No, not Rachel," he answers, pulling out his wallet and holding it open so that Blaine can see the photo inside – a pretty redhead and a small boy clutching a toy Elmo.

"You've got a son, too?"

Finn grins widely. "He's three. My mom and Burt are taking care of him right now, though."

"Wow, Finn… you've got a good life. I'm happy for you."

Finn smiles fondly at the photo one last time before putting it away. "So, what about you?"

Blaine flaps a hand. "Well, I'm not married, but my boyfriend and I work together, so we see a lot of each other. I'm on stage, he's in the wardrobe department."

"That's awesome! Which show?"

"_American Idiot_."

"No way! We're seeing that tomorrow night!"

"You should've called me; I could've gotten discount tickets."

Finn shrugs. "Yeah, well, since Facebook went bankrupt it's been harder to keep track of people. You know how it is."

Blaine nods in understanding. "Life gets in the way," he says. He shifts his weight to his other foot. "How's Kurt?" he asks, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Did… did he ever get better?" _Did he put himself back together?_

Over the years Blaine has spent less and less energy wondering about Kurt and if he was all right – if he'd gotten better or worse or stayed the same. But now that Blaine is staring Kurt's stepbrother in the face, the worried curiosity is renewed and impossible to ignore.

The smile melts off of Finn's features, and Blaine feels a painful twisting in his stomach, like he's preparing to be punched in the gut.

"Blaine…" Finn starts quietly, his head hanging a little. He's no longer looking Blaine in the eye and instead is studying the concrete under their feet.

Blaine tenses. "What?"

Finn lets out a long breath, raising his head to gaze up at the gigantic glowing tree towering above them. "Kurt's gone."

Blaine blinks. "What?" he repeated.

"He's gone. He – he died. I-I'm sorry."

Blaine wishes he could say he's completely surprised. "H-how? When?"

"It's… really a long story," Finn tells him apologetically. "It wasn't suicide, though."

Blaine is honestly not sure if that makes it better.

Finn pushes back his sleeve to look at his watch. "Crap," he says, glancing over his shoulder and scanning the crowds. "Look, Blaine, I'm meeting someone here right now. I'm _really_ sorry, but I'm going to have to say goodbye."

Blaine nods silently, not moving from where he's standing.

"Blaine? Are you okay?" There's a pause, and then, "Sorry, dumb question."

Taking a deep breath, Blaine forces himself to remember that Kurt was just an old high school boyfriend whom he hadn't seen or spoken to since the eleventh grade. And prior to that, he'd only known Kurt for a little more than a year.

"Blaine, don't you have somewhere to be?" Finn says gently, snapping Blaine's attention back to the present.

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" Blaine tries to joke, but it falls flat since he can't keep his voice light.

"No, but like I said I'm meeting someone here," Finn replies evenly, and Blaine feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. "Tell you what," Finn says, pulling out his wallet again. He withdraws a business card and presses it into Blaine's hand. "That's all my contact info. Call me tonight; I'll buy you a drink and we can talk then."

Blaine nods, dazed though he's not entirely sure why – after all this isn't _really_ that much of a surprise. Even if one were to discount Kurt's first attempt at suicide and all the dangers his alters had posed, Kurt had still had a mile-long list of people who hated him for reasons that had nothing to do with his illness.

"I… guess I'll see you around, then," Blaine says, clutching Finn's card in his hand a little more tightly than necessary. At this point, he _will_ be late to the dress rehearsal. Roger's going to give him an earful.

Finn claps Blaine on the shoulder. "It was really good seeing you," he says earnestly.

Blaine's about to say goodbye, but someone appears from the crowd behind Finn and walks up. "Okay, I got the tickets for _Les Mis_ and _American Idiot_—"

The man stops when he sees Blaine, and Blaine feels as if the ground has suddenly dropped out from under his feet. He wants to glare at Finn and demand to know why he lied, but he's shell-shocked and he can't do anything except _stare_.

Kurt is standing right there beside Finn, taller than Blaine remembered. There's no sign of illness or exhaustion on his face, no circles under his eyes (which are a strangely unfamiliar shade of blue), and he's thin but not unhealthily skinny. Blaine can see a little more than half of Kurt's anchor tattoo over where the scarf is loosely hanging from his neck.

Kurt shifts awkwardly, uncomfortable with the look on Blaine's face. "Uh, Finn?" he says, his spine straightening and his shoulders pulling back almost defensively. "Who's this?"

If Blaine wasn't still trying to wrap his brain around the fact that Kurt is _here_ – _oh my god oh my god oh my god_ – he would have seen Finn's cringe.

"J-just…" Finn stammers, caught in the lie. "Just an old friend." He rakes his fingers through his hair. "From high school."

"Oh!" Kurt smiles. He holds his hand out for Blaine to shake. "Hi. I'm Andy."

Blaine feels as if his heart is being slowly sucked down into his stomach.

"Um, Andy…" Finn stops him with a hand on Kurt's arm. He says something more, but Blaine can't hear it because everything sounds like it's underwater, and Kurt's hand drops back to his side. He glances at Blaine a second time, then nods to Finn and backs away, shoving his hands into his pockets and saying something about getting a coffee. He vanishes into the crowd.

Finn turns back to Blaine, puts a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, listen—"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Blaine demands breathlessly, all thoughts of rehearsal forgotten as if they'd been absorbed by the crowds around them.

"Look, man—"

Blaine shakes his head. "I don't – I don't understand."

"Blaine," Finn says loudly, his voice snapping Blaine's attention into focus. "Listen, I don't have time to talk right now; we're supposed to be meeting my wife soon. Just… call me tonight, and we'll go out for a drink and talk. Okay?"

Too stunned to do anything else, Blaine nods, swallowing a gulp of cold air.

"Okay," Finn says. "I'll see you tonight, then."

Before Blaine has time to process _anything_, Finn is gone.

It's only after what has to be at least a full minute that Blaine looks down at the business card in his palm:

_Finn Hudson – Guidance Counselor  
>Marion-Franklin High School<br>Columbus, Ohio – (614) 365-2941  
>Go Red Devils!<em>

* * *

><p>After the day's rehearsal has let out (late), Blaine immediately leaves the theater and walks up 6th Avenue until he reaches West 56th, ignoring the bitter cold and leaving the Times Square Christmas tree behind without a second look. He finds the Kipling Pub nestled in between a salon and an Abercrombie &amp; Fitch outlet and ducks inside, his heart thudding in the pit of his stomach.<p>

The pub is crowded and a little noisy inside, but it doesn't take long for Blaine to spot Finn waving at him from booth at the back. Finn's on the phone as Blaine slides into the bench opposite him and orders a Samuel Adams from the waitress (there's already a beer sitting in front of Finn). He shoves his coat and bag into the corner of the bench next to him.

"…Hannah, it's just drinks with a friend, okay? Nothing crazy," Finn is saying, mouthing 'Sorry!' at Blaine as he holds the cell to his ear. "No, I'll definitely be back by then. …Yeah, okay, love you too." He hangs up with an apologetic shrug, dropping the phone into his jacket's inside pocket. "She gets a little nervous in big cities."

"That was your wife?"

Finn nods.

"How'd you two meet?" Blaine inquires, though he's pretty sure that Finn knows as well as he does that he's just afraid of asking for what he really wants to know.

"Uh, college," Finn answers. "Psych 101." He takes a sip from his beer.

Blaine falls quiet until the waitress sets a large foaming glass in front of him. He turns it slowly on the table with his fingertips, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Why did you lie, Finn?" he finally musters the courage to say.

Finn sighs, setting his drink down with a solid _thunk_. "I didn't."

Blaine frowns, more confused now than ever.

"Kurt's gone, Blaine," Finn says again. "I told you the truth."

"I don't understand."

"He's gone." Finn looks almost desperate, like he's begging for Blaine to suddenly comprehend so that he doesn't have to explain. "He… he started showing up less and less, and then he just… didn't come back. We haven't seen him in almost ten years."

Blaine shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut for half a second. "B-but how is that possible?"

"I don't know, but he's been Andy for ages now."

"The other alters are gone?"

Finn scratches his temple, propping his elbow on the table. "No, some of them still show up sometimes, but… it's really rare now. The last time he transitioned was in March." He shrugs like it's not a big deal. "He's about as stable as he's ever going to get."

Blaine's skull feels drained. "He's not in the hospital?"

"No, he hasn't needed that since I was in college. He's got his own job and apartment and everything; we don't even lend him money."

"What does he do?"

"Freelance writing for a bunch of newspapers," Finn replies, sounding way more casual than is warranted. "He works from home."

"That's… good, I guess." Blaine doesn't know what else to say, so he falls quiet. The beer glass is cold against his fingertips, but his neck and shoulders feel hot.

After a minute, his phone beeps in his pocket and he digs it out, almost grateful for the distraction. A text from Roger illuminates the screen:

_Hey where are you? You looked upset all day. Should I be worried?_

Crap. He completely forgot to tell Roger he was going out after rehearsal, and now he feels like an ass.

"Sorry, just give me a sec," Blaine says to Finn, quickly typing out a response.

_It's ok, I'm fine. I'm having a beer with a friend but I'll be home before midnight. Sorry I forgot to tell you – I'll talk to you when I get back._

He puts his phone off to the side, finally taking a gulp from his beer. It slides down his throat and sits in his stomach like lead.

"Finn, why were you trying to get rid of me?" Blaine forces himself to ask. "You could have just told me what was going on before Kurt showed up. I mean… it couldn't have been any worse, right?"

Finn swallows, looking down at the surface of the table. A muscle in his jaw tightens.

"What?" Blaine presses.

"Blaine, you—"

"What aren't you telling me?"

Finn lets out a heavy breath, his jaw clenching again for half a second. "Andy is short for Anderson."

Blaine stares at him. "…What?"

Finn remains silent, his mouth tight.

"He— I don't understand."

"Alters are sometimes based on real people, Blaine. It happens."

This… this is too much. Blaine's stomach is churning now, and his skull feels like it's just been electrocuted. "S-so… he's me?"

Finn shakes his head. "No, no, it's not— There's similarities, yeah, but…" He rakes his fingers through his hair. "I don't know; it's complicated."

"But… why?" Blaine has to ask.

"I don't know," Finn says honestly. "None of us do, but whatever reason Kurt had for creating Andy, it had to have been a good one."

Blaine wants to throw up. "N-No, I meant… why _me?_"

Finn pauses, the corners of his mouth twitching. "You made Kurt feel safe."

* * *

><p>Hannah yawns as she knocks on the door to Andy's hotel room adjacent to hers and Finn's, pulling her hair back into a messy bun. Finn's still out for drinks with some old friend he said he'd run into, and she wants to call it an early night. "Andy?" she calls. "I'm going to head to bed."<p>

There's no answer, and for a moment Hannah wonders if Andy decided to go out with Finn after all (she'd suggested it earlier but Andy just said he had a few articles to work on).

"Andy," she repeats.

She hears a strange _thud_ from inside the room and frowns, a bad feeling suddenly tugging at the base of her skull. "Andy? Are you all right?" she calls, a bit louder. "Hello?"

Andy doesn't respond.

"Open the door, Andy," she orders, hoping he's actually there. She does understand that Andy doesn't technically exist, but she's known Finn's brother by that name for so long that she can't think of him as anyone else, even if the other people in his head show up on occasion. Hannah sends a quick prayer skyward in the hopes that Andy is still Andy, but from the way he's behaving, she doesn't think so. She can't imagine why a switch would have been triggered here and now.

"Andy!" she demands, jiggling the handle. She tries to think, and then remembers that Finn kept the extra key to Andy's room with him just in case this happened. She doesn't know if Finn has the key with him now, but she rushes back to her room to check anyways.

The key card is lying on the desk by the bed, and Hannah huffs in relief as she grabs it and hurries back down the hallway.

Swiping the card through the sensor, she pushes the door open and finds Andy sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to her. He's bent over with his head in his hands, as if he's suffering a migraine or he thinks his skull is about to burst.

"Andy?" she says. "What's wrong?"

Hannah circles around the room toward him, but he doesn't seem to hear her.

Reaching out, she puts a hand on his shoulder and repeats his name, only to have him leap back as if her touch had electrocuted him. He's on his feet now, breathing hard and his eyes wide in panic.

"It's okay!" Hannah promises, her hands raised. "You're okay."

Andy's eyes are glassy and confused, jumping around the room as if he's afraid of the very wallpaper. "Wh-who are you?" he stammers out, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar, pitched slightly higher than usual.

"Hannah," she says gently, her heart racing in her chest. "I'm Hannah, remember?"

He shakes his head.

Whoever she's speaking to now must be a personality she's never met, and that _terrifies _her. Finn told her years ago what to do if this ever happened – just act as calmly as possible, don't scare him, don't push him, _don't touch him._ She keeps her distance.

"What's your name?" she asks slowly, hoping for a name she's heard before.

He doesn't answer, hugging his chest and glancing out the window as if he's afraid it's going to break. He's still having trouble breathing.

"Can I get you some water? Anything that'll make you feel better?" she offers.

His eyes turn back to her, threatening to spill over. Hannah feels oddly like she's sitting on top of a bomb. When he speaks, he can't keep his voice steady.

"Where's my dad?" he wants to know, his ribs shuddering.

Hannah freezes. The only alter she's ever heard ask for Burt is Tyler. This isn't Tyler. "H-he's back at home," she stutters.

He doesn't seem to understand her. "Where's my dad?" he repeats.

"He's at home." Hannah chews on her lip. "Do you want me to call Finn?"

"F-Finn's here?"

"Yes, he is."

He sways on his feet for a brief moment, his eyes sliding shut. Hannah's starting to think that this is something she needs Finn's help with. Andy's never acted like this before; at least, not that she's ever seen.

"Andy?" she says again, although she's not sure what to call him at the moment.

He straightens up, his eyes opening as he blinks at her. "Crap, did I transition?" he asks, glancing between her and the door. His voice is back to its usual pitch.

"Y-yeah, you did," Hannah stammers.

"Crap," he repeats, clicking his tongue against his teeth. "Who was it?"

"I don't know."

Andy blinks in surprise. "You're serious?"

"Yes," Hannah insists. Her heart is still beating too fast. "I – I thought it was Tyler at first, but he didn't know who I was."

Andy stops, his brows pulling together and his eyes widening slightly. "I think you need to call Finn."

* * *

><p>Finn returns to the hotel just past ten-thirty, sweeping the snow out of his hair as he takes the too-slow elevator up to the sixth floor. He got the call from Hannah just as he and Blaine were leaving the pub and rushed back to the Hyatt as quickly as the taxi allowed, and now he half-runs down the sixth-floor hallway until he comes to Kurt's room, rapping on the door with his knuckles.<p>

Hannah opens the door, already in her pajamas with her hair tied up.

"Hey, is—"

"He's fine, he's okay," Hannah assures him quickly, stepping aside to let Finn pass.

Finn brushes by her, not bothering to take off his coat. Kurt is sitting on the end of his bed, leaned over with his elbows propped on his knees. "What happened?"

Kurt straightens up, rolling his shoulders back. "I'm okay, Finn," he promises, but he sounds tired. "I switched, and Hannah says it might be a new alter."

Finn turns back to Hannah, who's leaning against the wall with her arms crossed over his chest. "Are you sure?"

"No, not at all."

"But he didn't know who you were?" Finn asks, raking a hand through his hair in confusion. This shouldn't be happening. Kurt is _stable_. There hasn't been anything new since Andy appeared for the first time, and that was nine years and seven months ago (but who's counting?).

This vacation should have consisted only of Finn, his wife, and his brother enjoying the sights and sounds of New York. It was a Christmas present from Burt and Carole and is meant to be enjoyed fully. And yet in one day, Finn has to explain Andy's existence to _Blaine Anderson_, of all people, and deal with a new alter on top of that.

Hannah shakes her head. "No. He just asked for Burt."

Finn lets out a heavy breath, dropping into the chair by the desk and unbuttoning his coat. "Damn it," he says, because it's the most appropriate response he can think of.

"Finn…" Kurt starts, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I don't think it's a new alter."

Finn frowns in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I mean… nothing feels different."

"Andy, this alter had no idea who Hannah was," Finn protests, gesturing to his wife, who shifts her weight nervously away from the wall. "She's met everyone else, so—"

"She hasn't met Kurt."

Finn freezes, his brain stem twisting at the base of his skull. "Andy, Kurt is _gone_."

Kurt makes a face. "You don't actually believe that, do you?" he demands, his tone turning harsh.

"He hasn't shown up in ten years!"

"People don't just disappear from their own heads, Finn," Kurt insists like he's offended, raising his voice to match Finn's.

Finn huffs, his lungs feeling a little too empty. "Okay, let's say you're right," he snaps, throwing his hands up. "Why would Kurt just suddenly come back like this? Why now? Where's he been?"

"Damn it, I don't know!"

"Guys, just calm down!" Hannah nearly shouts. Finn swallows and sits back, praying for the static in his nerves to go away. "Look, whether it was someone new or it was actually Kurt, chances are he's going to show up again. So what do you want to tell Burt and Carole?"

Kurt blinks in surprise. "You're kidding, right?"

"Why would we keep any of this from them?" Finn agrees.

Hannah presses her lips together, tugging anxiously on a stray lock of hair. "Do you really want to tell Burt that Kurt might have come back, just to have Kurt never show up again?"

Finn exhales, feeling heavy. Hannah has a point. Burt might still work full time but his health isn't what it used to be and a blow like that would cripple him. "Crap," he says.

Kurt doesn't speak for several minutes, appearing deep in thought. Finally he runs a palm over his forehead, sounding almost guilty as he says, "I don't think we should tell them anything at all."

"Really?" Finn asks, because he can't quite believe that his brother would want to be that dishonest.

Kurt jaw tenses for a moment as he studies the carpeting. "I'm pretty sure it wasn't a new alter," he says. "And on the off-chance that Kurt doesn't come back again, I don't want to put Burt through that. He's already had to deal with me taking over."

Hannah bites her thumbnail, staying quiet. Finn pulls his fingers through his hair as he considers Kurt's argument.

"Okay," he says at last. "We don't tell my mom or Burt. But we need to pay close attention in case this happens again."

Kurt nods in agreement.

"I think we should probably get a good night's sleep," Hannah interjects quietly. "It's been a long day."

Finn stands up, finally taking off his coat and hanging it over his arm. He feels stretched out and fatigued, and he wants to wake up tomorrow morning and realize that this was all a dream.

"You going to be okay?" he asks.

Kurt nods. "I'll be fine."

Finn takes a deep breath, bidding Kurt a good night and following Hannah back to their own room next door.

He spends the rest of the night praying.

* * *

><p>Blaine takes longer than is probably necessary to make it home to his apartment in Brooklyn, not sure if he's grateful that Roger waited up for him. He drops his coat onto the rack by the door, and goes immediately to the fridge for a beer. It's past midnight.<p>

Roger drops the book he'd been reading and gets up from the living area couch. "Hey, you okay?" he asks, frowning in concern.

"Rough day is all," Blaine brushes him off, tossing the bottle cap into the trash.

Roger leans against the counter. "What's going on? You were completely out of it at rehearsal."

Blaine takes a dragging swallow from the bottle. "I, uh… ran into an old ex."

"Oh, yikes," Roger says, his eyebrows waggling like it's something to gossip about. "What happened?"

Blaine tugs his fingers through his curls. "I don't know."

Roger cocks his head to the side, seeming to pick up that Blaine doesn't want to joke about this. "Is that who you went out with?" His tone is curious but not accusative, which Blaine's glad for. Roger was never the territorial type.

"No, I went out with his brother."

"Why his brother?"

Blaine sniffs, lacking the vocabulary to explain this. Roger's watching him with an openly worried expression, and Blaine realizes with a start that Roger is roughly the same height as Kurt, with a similar flop of brown hair sticking up from his head. And even though Roger's facial features are entirely, completely different, Blaine suddenly feels nauseous.

"Blaine, what's going on?" Roger asks again, reaching over to squeeze Blaine's forearm.

"You, um… you remember I told you about the boyfriend I had in high school? Kurt?"

"The one who turned out to be crazy?"

Blaine bristles at that, slamming his beer onto the counter. "I never said that," he snaps. "I never said he was crazy."

Roger flinches, pulling his hand away. "Okay, I'm sorry." He frowns at Blaine for a minute, more worried than before. "And… you saw him?"

Blaine rubs his eyes. He's too tired for this. "Yeah," he says quietly. "I saw him."

"…Is he okay?" Roger hesitantly asks.

Blaine doesn't answer. "Let's just go to bed," he sighs instead, a hand on the back of his neck. "It's late."

* * *

><p>Blaine's heart sits in his throat as Roger pulls their rental car to a stop by the curb in front of 59 Spencerville Road. He stares out the window at the house, surprised at how different it looks even though there haven't been many visible changes since the last time Blaine saw it. The porch bench is gone and there's a small plastic child's playground in the front yard, and Carole's garden has been expanded, although the leafless rosebushes are currently covered in a dusting of snow. Lines of sharp icicles hang from the porch trellis and from the edges of the roof.<p>

"You sure you want to do this?" Roger says, resting his hands on the top of the steering wheel.

Blaine swallows. "Not at all."

He's spent the last week focusing on work and Christmas shopping with Roger without much time to think in between – which he's been glad for – but now that they've stopped in Ohio to visit Blaine's family for a day before heading to Wyoming, Blaine's mind can't stop reeling. His conversation with Finn replays in the back of his head again and again, and he hates it because it's Christmas and he should be concentrating on spending time with his family and his boyfriend and not worrying about something that's got nothing to do with him any more.

To be honest, Blaine doesn't even know why he asked Roger if they could make a stop by Kurt's old house.

"You know you don't have to, right?" Roger offers.

Blaine unbuckles his seat belt, nervously wiping his clammy palms on the knees of his jeans. "I'll be back soon."

Roger reaches over to give Blaine's wrist a comforting squeeze. "I'll be waiting right here."

"Thanks," Blaine says as he forces himself to step down out of the car. He shivers in the December chill, his breath fogging in front of his nose as he walks up the shoveled path to the front door.

He rings the doorbell once and waits on the porch with too much air trapped in his lungs.

The door opens, and Burt is suddenly standing there with an expression somewhere between surprise and apprehension. "Blaine?"

Blaine attempts an earnest smile. "Hi, Mr. Hummel."

Burt half-laughs, clapping Blaine on the shoulder. He still towers over Blaine, though the last fifteen years are written obviously into his face. "Jesus, kiddo, how the hell are you?"

"I'm good," Blaine assures him. "Just passing through, visiting my family. I'm actually catching a flight out in a couple hours, though."

"Well, it's really great to see you," Burt says honestly, a grin making the corners of his eyes crinkle. "Finn and Hannah told me they ran into you in New York. Sounds like you're doing all right for yourself."

"Yeah…" Blaine nods, shoving his hands into his pockets. His heart's still beating a little too fast in the tips of his fingers. "I, um… I was actually hoping I could see Kurt— uh, Andy— for a minute. Is he here? I don't know where his apartment is."

Burt's smile fades, his mouth twitching slightly. His arms cross over his chest. "Blaine, are you sure?'

"Look, Finn told me everything when we were in New York," Blaine says quickly. "I know what to expect."

Burt shakes his head. "No, I know what Finn told you. I'm not worried about Kurt; I'm worried about you," he replies frankly. "I know what Kurt meant to you."

"I'll be fine," Blaine promises. "I just want to see how he's doing."

Burt's mouth twitches again, and he lets out a sigh. "Okay. He's actually in the garage right now with Dylan. Take the path around; you can just walk in the door."

"Thanks."

"And hey, kid," Burt stops him as he turns to leave. "I'm really glad I got to see you."

Blaine swallows. "You too, Mr. Hummel."

"See you around."

Burt disappears back into the house as Blaine steps off the porch. He glances nervously toward the car, where Roger waves to him from the driver's seat, and walks along the pathway to the garage. There's a smaller door off to the side, next to the car entrance, and Blaine prays for his heart to slow down as he turns the doorknob and tentatively steps inside.

Blaine almost freezes to the spot. Kurt is bent over the open hood of an old car, wearing cargo pants and an oil-flecked white tank top. A little boy who Blaine recognizes from the picture Finn had in his wallet is sitting perched on the bumper, twisting a wrench around a bolt in the engine under Kurt's guidance.

"That's it, pull on it as hard as you can," Kurt coaches, his hand over the boy's fingers. "Good!"

The door clicks shut behind Blaine, and Kurt's head snaps up, blinking in surprise.

"Can I help you?"

"Um, I'm not sure if you remember me—" Blaine stammers, taking a step forward.

"Oh, Blaine, right?" Kurt straightens up, taking the wrench out of the little boy's hand and dropping it back into the toolbox. "We met in New York."

Blaine nods. "Yeah."

"You were great in _American Idiot_, by the way," Kurt says. "Your performance of _Whatsername_ was phenomenal. Really."

"Thanks."

Kurt pulls the rag off his shoulder and wipes his fingers. The little boy remains sitting on the bumper, openly staring at Blaine. He's got the same dark, spiky hair as Finn and when Kurt lifts him off the car and sets him on the floor, he immediately wraps his arms around Kurt's leg, shying away from Blaine (although he's still staring). His stubby fingers clutch at the fabric of Kurt's cargo pants as Kurt's hand rests on top of his head.

"So… what are you doing here?" Kurt asks, absentmindedly rumpling the boy's hair.

Blaine rubs nervously at the back of his neck (he's sweating, even though it's not that hot in the garage). "I, uh… I was visiting my family. My boyfriend and I are on our way to Wyoming, and I just thought I – I'd stop by and say hi. Your dad— Burt told me you were out here."

Kurt nods, his mouth tightening briefly before he glances down. "Dylan, why don't you go find Grandpa," he suggests, squeezing the boy's shoulder. "See what he's doing."

"I want to work on the car!" Dylan protests, craning his neck to look up at Kurt.

"Later, okay? Go wash your hands and hang with Grandpa for a bit." He gives Dylan a little push, and Dylan glances one last time at Blaine before running up the steps the door into the house.

"Is this your car?" Blaine asks once Dylan is gone, awkwardly clearing his throat.

"Yeah," Kurt nods proudly, giving the bumper a solid pat before he leans back against it. "1967 Pontiac GTO. Always wanted one." He shrugs. "I don't have a garage at my apartment, though, so Burt and Carole let me keep it here."

Blaine swallows, unsure of what to say.

Kurt scuffs the concrete floor with the toe of his boot. "Finn told me you were a friend of Kurt's, you know."

"…Oh?"

"I'm sorry, this must be really weird for you." Kurt's mouth crooks to the side like he wants to say something else, but he doesn't.

Blaine lets out a pained chuckle. "Bit of an understatement, yeah."

"If I'd known, I wouldn't have introduced myself so bluntly when we met," Kurt says, propping his hands against the car on either side of him. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Blaine replies, even though in the back of his head he's thinking _it's really, really not._

There's an awkward silence, because Blaine honestly doesn't know what he can or should say and he could probably have thought this through more…

"Was… there anything you wanted to talk about?" Kurt prompts.

Blaine inhales deeply, suddenly feeling like his heart is beating too slowly. "Is there any chance that Kurt will come back?"

"Yeah, of course." Kurt's answer is sincere, but there's still something else that flits over his face.

"Really?"

Kurt shrugs. "You can't just erase someone like that," he says as if it's common knowledge. "It's impossible."

Blaine frowns. "Then why—"

"Look, um… Blaine," Kurt cuts him off, scratching at his temple with an oil-stained finger. "At this point, if Kurt somehow manages to come back, he's going to need a lot of therapy. You won't want to see him like that. It'll be hell all over again, whether or not he comes out of it in one piece."

"How do you know?"

Kurt gives him a look. "Why else would I be here?"

Blaine clamps his lips shut, his stomach twisting.

"Blaine, what happened to Kurt… some people can handle that stuff," Kurt sighs, sounding almost apologetic. "Some people can't. There's no shame in that. But I can promise you that if Kurt didn't need me, I wouldn't be here." Kurt bites his lip, looking sorry for what he's saying, but he continues. "I'm here so that he can function. And he does. And he knows it. But… he doesn't want to be himself."

There's a sharp rock in Blaine's throat, but he doesn't want to acknowledge it. "I don't understand."

"That's okay," Kurt says, instead of trying to explain.

Blaine looks back at the door for half a second, biting the insides of his cheeks. "Maybe I should go…"

"It's up to you."

Blaine tries to breathe without the air constricting in his chest, but it's a difficult task. The atmosphere feels thin. "I guess, then…" he starts, his voice wavering. "Goodbye." He turns toward the door before he allows himself to stay.

"Hey, Blaine," Kurt calls as Blaine pushes the door open. He stands up off the car.

Blaine feels like the shard in his throat is ripping his esophagus apart, but he stops.

"If Kurt wakes up, I'll have him give you a call," Kurt promises.

Blaine doesn't know if Kurt is telling the truth or not, but he nods and gives Kurt one final glance before swallowing everything he wants to say and stepping back out into the cold.

* * *

><p><em><strong>We're through with the past but the past isn't through with us.<br>Magnolia**_


	95. AUTHOR'S NOTE

**_Author's Note_**

Hi, there! My name is Margaret, and let me say before anything else – **_THANK YOU_**. Thank you so much for sticking with me and with the story over the past year and three months. I really can't express how much it means to me that you did.

I was actually planning on filming this author's note, but unfortunately I've had so many issues with my camera that I decided it was no longer worth the hassle and I typed it up instead.

I'd like to talk a little bit about DID, which by this point you already know stands for Dissociative Identity Disorder. And it's a controversial issue in the field of psychology; it really is. But it's not usually clear to those who don't study psychology **why** it's controversial.

Now, you have to understand that, while I didn't take creative liberty with many things in regards to my depiction of DID, what you read was still a very condensed and extreme form of the illness. People suffering from DID rarely switch personalities that rapidly, and it's **incredibly** unusual for DID to present as early as it did for Kurt. So, please bear that in mind.

First of all, DID is a very difficult disease to officially diagnose unless someone has actually witnessed a personality switch, and even that can be hard to spot. Blackouts and memory lapses are caused by hundreds of different things, so there's no reason to entirely trust the word of the patient themselves. This is where things begin to get complicated.

There are three kinds of doctors when it comes to DID. The first kind believes it when someone has DID and will do whatever it takes to treat the illness, and what most people don't realize is that this can be a **very** dangerous and detrimental practice, and you'll see why when I come to the third category. The second category of doctor is the non-believer. They do not believe split personalities are possible at all, and they will refuse to treat someone who claims to have DID, which is also very dangerous for obvious reasons. If they do treat this person, they'll find an alternate and more concrete explanation for the patient's behavior, which may or may not be accurate.

The third kind of doctor is neither a believer nor a non-believer. They're skeptical but not entirely closed to the idea that it could be real. The most common opinion among these doctors is that DID is, for the most part, a **doctor-induced illness**. This means that someone is suffering from a severe mental problem and their psychologist diagnoses them with DID without having been as thorough in that diagnosis as they should have been. Then, because the doctor is seeing DID where he or she wants to see it, the patient trusts that opinion and truly believes that they do have it. And it's only from that particular point on that they begin to display the full-blown symptoms. It's a sort of reversed placebo effect.

So, there is a huge element of this that is falsified. The big question is how much of it is not real, and how deep does that go? And that's exactly why it's so controversial – it's because nobody can tell.

Now, a few statistics. The first acknowledged case of DID was sometime in the mid 1600s, and it probably wasn't the first case in existence if you consider the behavioral problems exhibited by those accused of witchcraft in centuries before. It was first studied as a formally-diagnosed illness around the turn of the century, and up until the 1970s, there were less than one hundred cases that had been examined and considered to be legitimate instances of DID, though at this point it was still identified as "multiple personality disorder".

Everything changed in the 1970s, and this is the point where it begins to get really nasty. The numbers **exploded**. By 1980, there were **thousands** of identified cases across the United States. The numbers jumped so quickly that it was referred to as an epidemic.

What had changed? The media. A combination of the two movies _Sybil_ and _The Three Faces Of Eve_ – but especially Sybil – had caused audiences to suddenly be hyper-aware of this new disorder. Bear in mind that at the time, it **wasn't** new. It was only new to the generalized public, and once people had heard of it, it was more an epidemic of panicked hypochondria than anything else.

To further add fuel to the fire, the case study that provided the foundation for the story of Sybil turned out to be a hoax. Was the original Sybil suffering from mental illness? Definitely. Had she been severely abused? Probably. Was it a true instance of split personalities? No. That was, as the third category of doctor will tell you, an instance of doctor-induced DID.

And even now, the numbers are **still** climbing. As of 2010, according to the US Census, there are 40,000 people in the United States alone currently suffering from DID. That's enough people to construct a community the size of **Jefferson City**. Of course, you have to be aware of where this number comes from. **Doctors**. Thanks to the policy of doctor-patient confidentiality, the only information that the Census Bureau receives is a little tick of a checkbox stating that a doctor is treating someone with DID. They require no evidence beyond that. That's not to say that doctor-patient confidentiality is a bad thing, but it can make it a little difficult to get the right information.

An interesting and suspicious fact that you should take note of is that prior to 1990, there were fourteen psychiatric treatment facilities in the US that had been founded **specifically** to focus on the treatment of DID. Today, **none** of those exist. So, if the numbers are rising, why aren't the hospitals multiplying in order to accommodate that?

You should also remember that in order to officially diagnose most disorders as severe as DID, one of the required criteria is **six months** of continued symptoms. Puts a certain coloring on the rapid number jump, doesn't it?

So you understand why so many health professionals are hesitant to believe this idea of split personalities. Now we get down to the real stuff.

While the statistical explosion I just explained is nearly impossible to believe, there are a few other factors to take in before you dismiss it. It takes a truly terrifying level of trauma to cause someone to split their self into pieces, but nowadays it's easier for that to happen. Physical abuse, sexual abuse, psychological abuse… these statistics are **all** rising rapidly. And that doesn't even include the scores of victims who go unreported. Even traumatic incidents like violent car collisions and bombings are on a steep incline.

There's your statistical element of truth.

One of the biggest reasons for the myths and misconceptions surrounding people's understanding of DID is the media. Even now, movies skew what DID actually looks like and turns it into a cliched horror movie ending rather than depicting what it is, so there's almost nobody outside of medical professionals and people who have experienced it firsthand who understand that it's not just a plot twist.

It **is** a mental illness and a **very** serious one, but someone suffering from DID isn't **crazy**. Not in the sense that they can't distinguish what's real and what's not.

DID is basically a concentrated form of PTSD. I'm actually hesitant to describe it as split personalities, because that's not really what it is. That's what it **looks** like. And this is really why it's now described as a **dissociative** disorder and not "multiple personality disorder", because the alters really aren't personalities. They're only disconnections.

What an alternate personality **really** is is a piece of the original personality that has been stripped away from the rest in order to protect and defend the mind as a whole. It's the same principal as an animal caught in a hunter's trap chewing off its own limb in order to escape, or plowing fire roads through a forest in order to prevent the entire thing from burning down.

Alters are **not** subconscious personalities that burst to the surface once they're threatened enough – they're not **there** to begin with. On a psychological level, alters do nothing but **contain** memories and emotions that, if allowed to the surface of the original personality, are irreparably damaging. And in containing these memories and feelings, certain subconscious characteristics of the person are highlighted and emphasized in order to create what appears to be a separate personality. And they are just detailed enough to be very good at appearances.

The stripping of an alter away from the whole is not an instant process. It's a vicious cycle that usually takes **years** to fully develop into what we call an alternate personality. Abuse or trauma occurs to someone who is whole, and they immediately repress the feelings of terror in order to survive it. It doesn't matter who you are – **everyone** does this. It's the same thing that happens when someone is hit by a truck but is able to walk away because their body is in shock and can't feel pain. The brain has an **incredibly** powerful gateway mechanism in order to deal with pain, whether or not the pain is physical. DID is just one possible result of forcing the body into shock over and over again.

Unfortunately, once the split has developed, there's really no way to completely heal that wound. It's like dropping a plate on the floor – no matter how clean the break is and how well you repair it, the crack is always going to be there.

I want to share with you a passage I wrote down from a book that belongs to my mother:

— * —

"_The answer to "I have no idea how I am going to get through this" is: You allow yourself to sob, to heave, to feel as if your heart has a boulder crashing through it… You listen to your sorrow. You get help from your friends. And you notice that at the end of every day you are still alive. That feeling anything, even grief, is different from what you thought it would be. That when you don't leave yourself, a different life is lived. One that includes vulnerability and tenderness and fragility and changes the landscape – makes it verdant, wider, breathtaking – of life as you know it._

_To the extent that we go into survival mode – _I can't feel this, I won't feel this, it hurts too much, it will kill me_ – we are slipping into baby skins, old forms, familiar selves. Young children, especially infants, mediate the pain of loss or abandonment or abuse through the body; there is no difference between physical and emotional pain. If the pain is too intense and the defenses are too weak, a child will become psychotic and/or die. It is lifesaving for a child to develop defenses that allow them to leave a situation they can't physically leave by shutting down their feelings or turning to something that soothes them. But if as adults we still believe that pain will kill us, we are seeing through the eyes of the fragile selves we once were and relying on the exquisite defense we once developed: bolting. Obsessions are ways we leave before we are left because we believe that the pain of staying would kill us._

_But the person who would be killed, the "I" in the "pain is big and I am small" belief, is an idea, a memory, an image of yourself left over from childhood. You already felt destroyed. That was then. You will never be that small again. You are not dependent on someone else to hold you, to love you so that you can continue breathing._

_Staying requires awareness of the desire to bolt. Of the stories you are telling yourself about the need to bolt. Staying means recognizing that when you want to bolt you are living in the past. You are taking yourself to be someone who no longer exists. Staying requires being curious about who you actually are when you don't take yourself to be a collection of memories. When you don't infer your existence from replaying what happened to you, when you don't take yourself to be the person your mother/father/brother/teacher/lover didn't see or adore. When you sense yourself directly, immediately, right now, without preconception, who are you?_

_When you stay, you question what you've never questioned: the you you take yourself to be. The you who is not your past, not your habits, not your compulsions. Anything becomes possible. Even living through extraordinary pain._

_The glitch here is that it's not life in the present moment that is intolerable; the pain we are avoiding has already happened. We are living in reverse._"

— * —

You might not have guessed it, but that passage was an excerpt from a self-help book for dieters, titled "_Women, Food, And God_" by Geneen Roth. It's the psychology of **binge eating**.

This is why I believe DID is possible. Because _**dissociation**_ – the exact psychological process that causes the split in someone with DID – is something that is absolutely inherent to the human brain. This happens on **every level** of our psychological construct, in **every** aspect of our lives. We say "_I'll diet another day_" and we believe that eating that chocolate actually makes us feel better, or we starve ourselves for the agonizing belief that we are ugly inside and out. We are afraid to chase our dreams. We procrastinate. We refuse to kick a drug addiction. We **won't** go talk to that person we like because, like a skittish dog avoiding a stranger, we are so** scared** that we'll be hurt.

So, if by some miracle I have managed to write a story that affects you as an individual and not as a fan, that's not because I'm a good writer. It's because you've realized that you do this and you **know** that you know the feeling of pushing pain and discomfort to the side.

Word of advice? **Don't.** It is absolutely within our capabilities to change our lives for the better, and those who lead unhappy lives are only fooling themselves by believing that there's a way to avoid pain.

DID is, above all, a tragically deep-set lack of faith in one's own safety. We as an animal species are bound by one unavoidable, all-encompassing truth: we will go to immeasurable lengths and sacrifice almost anything to avoid pain. And the more we are able to get over this primal instinct and work through the pain, the happier we will be.

— Margaret —


	96. ANNOUNCEMENT

**ANNOUNCEMENT**

Hi, all!

First off, I want to thank all the most recent readers of _One In Four_, who found the story after its completion, and also the readers who were here from the beginning. I know it's been a very long time since _One In Four_ was finished, but I still am absolutely floored by the feedback I've received for it. This story was a way for me to work through some incredibly dark times in my life, and the fact that I was given the chance to share it with all of you means a great, great deal.

So, now we come to the real subject of this note, which is to tell you that, almost two years since the epilogue was posted and despite many many claims that I was not writing a sequel, a sequel is, in fact, happening. I truly had no plans to write anything more in the _One In Four _'verse, but apparently my brain had other ideas. (Fun fact: the original outline of _One In Four_ allotted for only ten chapters; we saw how that turned out.) This past fall I began writing the first few chapters, but I wanted to wait to post anything until the story gained momentum. As of today, I have nearly fifty pages of outlines, scripts, scene drafts, and the entire plot mapped out in enough detail for me to be confident in my ability to see the story through to the end.

Long story short, I hope you all will continue reading! The sequel will be published under the title _**Burn After Reading**_, which you can find on my profile, and I look forward to diving back into the 'verse with you.

Thanks to ALL of you!

— Margaret —


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